MICHE 
GULFE 


. 


EVENT  BOGERT  TERHUNE 


He  appeared  perfectly  willing 
to  express  his  views. — Page  32. 


Frontispiece. 


MICHEL    GULPE 


BY 

EVERIT   BOGERT  TERHUNE 


ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

SIDNEY    MARSH    CHASE 


G.    W.    DILLINGHAM     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


OF  CALIF.  LIBPAFY,  t/W 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

[A  II  rights  reserved] 


Michel  Gulpe.  Issued  August,  1902. 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 

Astor  Place,  New  York. 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


HE    APPEARED    PERFECTLY    WILLING   TO    EXPRESS    His 

VIEWS      .....      Frontispiece    32 

STOOD  STRAINING  His  EYES,  WITH  WILD  AND  FASCINATED 

GAZE        .  .  .  .  .  .  .63 

SHE  LOOKED  QUITE  THE  SAME  AS  SHE  HAD  ON  THE  DAY 

THAT  I  DIED  .     .     .     .     .     .122 

THE    GHASTLY    WHITE    FACE   OF    MICHAEL   GULPE  WAS 

STARING   AT  ME  .....  178 


Michel  Gulpe 

PART    ONE 

OW  I  happened 
to  engage  lodg 
ing  with  Madame 
Valjean  I  do  not 
know. 

Perchance  it  was  on  account 
of  the  fascinating  view  of  the 
little  provincial  town  which  the 
house,  situated  at  the  head  of 
the  steep,  narrow  street  leading 
through  the  village  to  the 
chateau,  afforded;  or  the  curi 
ous  old  house,  with  its  high 
pitched  roof,  its  two  front  win 


dows  all  askew,  like  the  eyes  of 
old  Felicien  the  portier  at  the 
Cheval  Blanc,  one  bulging  out 
and  the  other  sinking  back  in 
its  socket,  and  its  huge  nail 
studded  door  set  half-way  be 
tween  the  enormous  beams 
whose  ends  were  carved  with 
such  grotesque  figures  and 
faces ;  or  it  may  have  been  on 
account  of  the  kindly  red  face 
of  Madame  Valjean  herself,  as 
she  stood  by  my  side  puffing 
like  the  Paris-Calais  express 
from  the  exertion  of  escorting 
me  up  the  narrow,  dingy  stairs  to 
the  little  room  under  the  roof 


10 


An  ancient  four-poster  bed 
with  a  fluted  valance  and  cur 
tains  of  a  sombre  plum-colored 
stuff  stood  over  against  the  wall 
between  the  two  dormer  win 
dows.  A  cedar  chest,  an  old 
but  respectable  arm-chair  with 
a  faded  covering,  and  an  emaci 
ated,  three-legged  table  occupied 
the  rest  of  the  room.  On  the 
wall  hung  an  imposing  portrait 
of  the  late  Monsieur  Valjean 
en  costume  de  muscadin. 

That  which  interested  me 
most,  however,  was  the  view 
from  the  large  dormer  window 
At  the  foot  of  the  steep  high 


ii 


way  lay  the  little  town  with  its 
thread-like,  tortuous  streets,  and 
its  gray  cathedral,  under  the 
sombre  shadow  of  which  nestled 
a  cluster  of  houses  of  the  most 
diverse  styles  of  architecture 
Squatty  roofs  and  high-pitched 
roofs,  windows  of  every  shape 
and  size,  red  tiles  and  black 
tiles,  chimneys  and  turrets  of 
all  degrees  of  ugliness,  weather 
worn  timbers  of  nondescript 
hue,  all  were  there  in  exquisite 
variety  and  disorder.  Over 
towards  the  chateau  were  two 
little  steeples,  that  seemed  to 
be  pointing  at  the  heaven-kissing 


12 


cathedral  in  pert  derision,  in 
quite  the  same  way  as  the 
baker's  boy  might  point  at 
Monsieur  le  Cure  Ambroise  as 
he  passed  by  on  his  way  to 
early  morning  mass. 

The  view  taken  in  part  or  as 
a  whole  would  have  sent  a  thrill 
of  ecstacy  through  the  soul  of 
an  antiquarian  or  an  artist.  I 
was  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other,  but  I  have  a  decided 
affection  for  old  things  and 
peculiar,  and  the  atmosphere  of 
ages  agone  that  hung  over  the 
little  provincial  town  was  quite 
to  my  liking.  I  pictured  to 

13 


myself  many  a  happy  hour  spent 
in  rambling  among  these  old 
buildings,  hundreds  of  years  old, 
many  of  them,  not  to  mention 
the  delightful  companionship  of 
the  quaint  characters  that  go  to 
make  up  the  household  of  a 
town  such  as  one  finds  only  in 
provincial  districts  of  the  old 
world. 

"  And  will  monsieur  engage 
the  room  ?  "  asked  Madame  Val 
jean,  regarding  me  anxiously 
with  her  little  black  eyes. 

For  answer  I  drew  out  my 
wallet  and  placed  a  gold  coin 
in  her  fat  palm 

14 


"  And  when  Madame  has 
need  of  more,"  said  I,  smiling 
"  she  must  not  be  afraid  to  ask 
for  it." 

Then  Madame  bustled  around 
the  room  to  make  ready  for  her 
new  pensionnaire,  and  I  walked 
back  to  the  Cheval  Blanc  to 
pack  together  my  belongings 
and  bribe  Felicien  to  carry 
them  to  my  new  little  room 
under  the  roof. 

The  days  that  followed  were 

'  inspiriting  ones  for  me.      From 

morning    till    night    I    prowled 

about    the     old     town     making 

friends  with 

15 


The  butcher,  the  baker, 
The  candle-stick  maker, 
and  popping  upon  the  mysteries 
of  the  little  back  streets  which, 

tortuous  and  villainously  uneven, 

/ 

were  studded  with  malicious 
little  sharp  stones  that  brought 
to  mind  the  implements  of  tor 
ture  so  vividly  depicted  in  a 
highly-colored  print  that  hung 
up  in  the  rear  of  Mere  Suard's 
dingy  pastry  shop.  I  patronized 
all  the  shabby  old  inns  which 
seemed  to  glare  at  one  another 
with  open  disapproval  or  con 
temptuous  satisfaction  according 
as  a  patron  entered  one  or  the 

16 


other  for  his  morning  bock  or  his 
evening  potion  of  vin  ordinaire. 
Towards  four  o'clock  of  an 
afternoon  the  Cheval  Blanc 
would  present  a  scene  of  re 
markable  activity  in  comparison 
with  its  usual  state  of  torpor. 
All  the  worthies  of  the  town 
would  congregate  in  front  of 
this  highly-esteemed  caravan 
sary  to  await  the  diligence 
which  would  soon  arrive  from 
Poitiers.  Monsieur  le  docteur 
Laurien  would  be  there,  with 
his  puffy  red  face  and  his 
penny-trumpet  voice.  Pere 
Gaultier  who,  notwithstanding 

17 


his  game  leg,  would  have 
shuffled  three  miles  to  a  fun 
eral  if  he  could  but  get  out  of 
range  of  Mere  Gaultier's  wag 
ging  tongue,  would  be  sitting 
on  the  right  end  of  the  lower 
step  of  the  inn,  smoking  his 
briar  pipe.  Phillipe  Gahn,  the 
butcher,  would  be  promenading 
with  his  awe-inspiring  paunch 
up  and  down  the  gritty  walk, 
restlessly  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
some  special  roasts  from  the 
city.  And  Monsieur  le  cure 
Ambroise  would  be  there,  ask 
ing  the  men  about  the  vintage, 
inquiring  after  the  health  of 

18 


Madame  Laurien,  and  con 
gratulating  Pere  Gaultier  on 
his  good  health. 

Then  the  crack  of  a  whip 
would  be  heard  far  up  the 
Rue  Royale,  and  old  Felicien 
would  drag  himself  out  of 
the  Cheval  Blanc  and  stand 
on  the  stone  block  in  front 
of  the  walk,  his  head  high  in 
air,  his  arms  akimbo,  and  his 
rusty  chest  inflated  with  impor 
tance,  ready  to  catch  the  mail- 
bag  as  the  diligence  lumbered 
up  in  front  of  where  he  stood. 
The  greasy  windows  of  the 
old  tavern  would  be  filled  with 

19 


faces  of  chambermaids,  cooks 
and  scullions  peering  through 
to  see  if  there  were  a  new 
guest  and  what  he  might  look 
like. 

I  found  a  great  deal  that 
was  interesting  in  the  grave 
old  cathedral.  The  world-sim 
pie  villagers  regarded  with  awe 
this  massive  creation  of  human 
hands,  and  reverently  crossed 
themselves  as  they  passed 
within  sight  of  the  big,  cold 
windows  of  the  clearstory  that 
frowned  unsympathetically  on 
the  passer-by,  irrespective  of  his 
age,  sex,  or  condition.  And  the 


20 


grotesquely-carved  gargoyles, 
that  clung  to  the  cathedral  like 
parasites,  and  grinned  derisively 
at  the  great,  sombre  body  to 
which  they  were  fastened,  were 
a  source  of  much  annoyance  to 
little  Jean  Gaultier,  who  found 
them  just  a  trifle  too  high  for 
his  disaster-spreading  projectiles 
At  early  mass  the  villagers 
would  string  into  the  cheerless 
nave  of  the  cathedral,  kneel  on 
the  damp  flags,  and  pray  in 
silence  to  the  beloved  Mary 
behind  the  choir,  over  which 
sparkled  a  little  circular  window 
filled  with  curious  ornamental 


21 


tracery.  Madame  de  Laurien 
would  be  conspicuous  in  front 
of  the  reverent  multitude,  as 
near  the  choir  as  she  could  get. 
A  very  religious  woman  was 
Madame  de  Laurien,  especially 
when  she  wore  her  tattooed  silk 
dress,  green  scarf,  and  peacock 
bonnet,  which  Monsieur  le  doc 
teur  de  Laurien  had  brought 
her  from  Paris.  Not  far  from 
her  would  be  the  massy  frame 
of  Madame  Gahn,  who  was 
obliged  to  remain  kneeling  after 
her  matin  devotions  until  the 
beadle  could  assist  her  to  her 
feet.  And  Mere  Gaultier  would 


22 


be  there,  too,  kneeling  near  the 

O 

door,  where  she  could  keep  one 
eye  on  Monsieur  le  cure  Am 
broise  and  the  other  on  her 
young  hopeful,  Jean,  whose 
only  aspirations  were  to  escape 
through  the  door  into  the  open 
air  and,  finding  that  impossible, 
to  blow  a  spit-ball  as  far  as  the 
bald  spot  on  old  Felicien's 
bared  head. 

One  morning,  as  I  was  kneel 
ing  unobserved  beside  a  column 
in  the  cathedral,  I  overheard 
young  Jean  Gaultier,  who  was 
on  the  other  side,  setting  his 
wits  to  work  with  Sulpice  Tau 

23 


bert,  the  baker's  boy,  to  make 
merry  with  one  Gulpe — Michel 
Gulpe,  I  thought  they  said — 
against  whom  they  evidently 
bore  some  grudge. 

"You  carry  the  box  round 
there  to-night,"  whispered  Jean 
to  Sulpice,  "and  I'll  arrange 
the  rest  of  the  things." 

"  But  what  if  he  should  catch 
me?"  replied  Sulpice  in  a  trem 
ulous  voice,  "he  might  change 
me  into  a  rat." 

"More  likely  he'd  change 
you  into  a  chicken!'  replied 
Jean,  scornfully. 

"But  old  Felicien  says  Michel 
24 


Gulpe's  shop  is  filled  with  dev 
ils  and  that  he  can  do  whatever 
he  pleases  at  night,"  whispered 
Sulpice,  looking  over  his  left 
shoulder  in  terror.  "Why 
don't  you  go,  Jean?" 

"  Because  I  must  arrange  the 
rest  of  the  affair  all  alone,"  said 
Jean,  decidedly.  "And  besides, 
you  were  always  a  better  run 
ner  than  I,  Sulpice." 

This  compliment  —  a  rare 
thing  from  Jean — seemed  to 
pacify  Sulpice. 

The  boys  continued  talking 
in  an  undertone,  and  were  mak 
ing  good  progress  in  their  plot 

25 


when  of  a  sudden  a  fearful  blast 
shook  the  cathedral  from  end 
to  end.  Madame  de  Laurien 
seized  her  bonnet;  Madame 
Gahn  nearly  lost  her  balance  as 
she  jerked  her  head  around; 
Mere  Gaultier  forgot  all  about 
the  Cure  and  Jean.  Everybody 
looked  round  in  fear  and  trem 
bling  —  everybody  except  old 
Felicien,  for  one  of  his  re 
nowned  nasal  outbursts  had 
been  the  cause  of  all  the  disturb 
ance.  But  it  was  a  frightful 
blast,  nevertheless,  and  I 
glanced  round  just  in  time  to 
see  Jean  and  Sulpice  disappear 

26 


ing  through  the  door  of  the 
cathedral  as  if  they  had  seen  a 
score  of  Michel  Gulpe's  red 
devils  with  blue  tips  to  their 
tails.  Needless  to  say,  Jean 
was  the  first  out.  Whatever  be 
came  of  their  plot  against 
Michel  Gulpe,  I  do  not  know. 

"  Where  is  Michel  Gulpe's 
shop?"  I  asked  of  Felicien,  as 
we  were  walking  back  towards 
the  Cheval  Blanc,  after  mass. 

The  old  portier  could  not 
have  stared  at  me  with  greater 
surprise  had  I  asked  him  for  the 
loan  of  a  /outs  d'  or. 

"You'll    find     him    at     his 
27 


boutique  de  tabac.  Rue  M artel," 
said  he,  edging  away  from  me 
as  if  I,  too,  had  been  possessed 
of  devils. 

I  walked  down  the  Rue 
Royale  to  the  Rue  de  la  Plaine 
and  then  picked  my  way  through 
to  the  Rue  Martel,  a  funny  old 
street,  as  narrow  and  dingy  as  a 
street  could  be.  Not  far  from 
the  corner  I  saw  a  big  pipe 
hanging  up  over  a  rickety  old 
door,  on  which  was  painted: 

MICHEL   GULPE 
BOUTIQUE    DE    TABAC. 

I  pushed  open  the  door  and 
walked  in.  Michel  Gulpe  —  I 

28 


knew  it  must  be  he  —  was  stand 
ing  behind  a  well-worn  counter 
reading  a  book  by  light  of  the 
few  straggling  rays  that  oozed 
in  through  the  dirty  window 
panes. 

An  odd  looking  man  was  he, 
tall  and  angular,  with  shaggy 
gray  hair,  eyes  black  and  beady, 
a  complexion  swarthy,  and  a 
careworn  expression  on  his  face 
marking  him  as  a  man  who 
had  either  suffered  much  or 
had  applied  himself  too  assidu 
ously  to  some  cherished  pur 
suit.  On  his  head  was  a  little 
black  cap. 

29 


To  the  gullible  minds  of  Jean 
and  Sulpice,  or  to  the  super 
stitious  folk  of  the  village 
Michel  Gulpe  might  easily  have 
passed  as  an  uncanny,  unnatu 
ral  creature;  but  to  the  sober 
mind  he  was  merely  an  eccentric 
man,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  un 
hinged. 

I  asked  for  some  tobacco,  and 
while  Michel  was  weighing  it, 
I  glanced  at  the  book  which  he 
had  been  reading,  and  which 
was  lying  on  the  counter.  It 
was  a  philosophical  treatise  of 
some  distinction.  I  was  sur 
prised  to  see  such  a  work  thumb 
30 


worn  by  a  petty  tobacconist  in 
the  Rue  Martel. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  a  philoso 
pher,  Monsieur  Gulpe,"  said  I 
pointing  to  the  book. 

"  Not  exactly  a  philosopher, 
Monsieur,"  he  replied,  handing 
me  my  package  of  tobacco, 
"but  a  lover  of  philosophy  and 
the  sciences.  And  you?' 

"  Merely  a  dabbler  in  such 
things,"  said  I. 

"  It's  far  better  to  be  a  good 
dabbler  than  a  poor  philoso 
pher,"  he  replied,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "Most  of  the  peo 


31 


pie  hereabout  are   mighty   poor 
philosophers." 

I  was  soon  aware  that  Michel 
Gulpe  was  a  man  of  deep  learn 
ing,  but  I  also  perceived  that  he 
was  decidedly  uncommunicative 
when  it  came  to  talking  about 
himself.  He  appeared  perfectly 
willing  to  express  his  views  on 
any  scientific  or  doctrinal  sub 
ject  and  presented  his  views  in 
an  interesting  and  convincing 
way.  Yet  he  would  avoid  any 
question  that  might  be  of  a 
personal  nature.  This  evasive 
air  of  his  served  only  to  augment 
my  thirst  for  knowledge,  how 

32 


ever,  and  when  I  left  the  little 
boutique  de  tabac  in  the  Rue 
Martel,  I  congratulated  myself 
on  having  made  the  acquaint 
ance  of  an  interesting  character 
in  Michel  Gulpe,  tobacconist. 


33 


PART   TWO 


PART  Two 


ICHEL  GULPE! 

exclaimed  M  a 
dame  Valjean, 
sweeping  away 
the  crumbs  with 
her  general-utility  apron.  "  You 
haven't  been  wasting  your  time 
with  that  shatterpated  old  fool 
have  you,  monsieur  ? ' 

"  Why,  yes."      I  replied.     "  I 
happened    into    his     shop     this 


37 


morning  to   buy   some    tobacco 
and  we  got  talking  together  ' 

"  But,  monsieur,"  exclaimed 
Madame,  wiping  the  beads  of 
perspiration  from  her  glowing 
face  with  her  apron,  "  don't  you 
know  that  Michel  Gulpe  is  — 
is  crazy  and  bewitched  ? ' 

"  Crazy  and  bewitched!' 
echoed  I,  looking  up  in  appar 
ent  surprise  from  the  tarte  which 
she  had  placed  on  the  table  be 
fore  me,"  "Why,  Madame,  you 
are  judging  Michel  harshly.  I 
certainly  shouldn't  call  him 
crazy." 

"  But     he     is      crazy."       said 

38 


Madame,  emphatically,  drying  a 
large  platter  on  her  apron, 
"  Everyone  hereabout  will  tell 
you  so.  Why,  he  even  thinks 
that  when  we  die  we  change 
into  animals !  There's  Maitre 
Richepin,  for  instance.  He  is 
a  large  man,  you  know,  and  has 
to  eat  more  than  most  people 
to  keep  the  breath  within  his 
body.  Now,  Michel  Gulpe  says 
that  Maitre  Richepin  is  going 
to  turn  into  a  pig  when  he 
dies.  You  may  depend  upon 
it  that  Maitre  Richepin  never 
patronizes  Michel  Gulpe  for 
tobacco.  Then  there's  old 


39 


Mere  Gaultier.  She  is  some 
what  of  a  scold,  to  be  sure;  but 
who  wouldn't  be  to  have  an  old 
soft-spot  like  Michel  Gulpe  tell 
everybody  that  she  is  going  to 
change  into  a  porcupine? 
Philippe  Gahn,  the  butcher, 
will  change  into  a  poodle  — 
and  Philippe  Gahn  is  as  good 
a  man  as  ever  made  sausages ! 
If  ever  a  man  was  loony,  mon 
sieur,  it's  that  Michel  Gulpe." 

And  Madame  Valjean  gave 
vent  to  her  emotions  by  sud 
denly  pouncing  upon  a  couple 
of  inoffensive  flies  with  her 
apron. 

4o 


Knowing  the  peculiarities  of 
French  country-folk  as  I  did, 
I  was  aware  that,  inasmuch  as 
most  of  the  villagers  looked 
askance  at  Michel  Gulpe,  it 
would  be  better  for  me  not  to 
evince  too  keen  an  interest  in 
him.  Therefore,  after  lunch,  I 
strolled  up  and  down  the  little 
garden-plot  in  front  of  the 
house  for  some  time,  in  order 
to  allay  Madame  Valjean's  sus 
picions  and  to  await  a  favor 
able  opportunity  to  make  my 
escape  unobserved  towards  the 
Rue  Martel.  At  last,  seeing 
Madame  nowhere  in  sight,  I 

41 


walked  unconcernedly  out  of 
the  garden  and  started  down 
the  Rue  Royale.  As  I  glanced 
back,  however,  I  saw  Madame 
Valjean  running  across  to  Ma 
dame  Picard,  her  nearest  neigh 
bor,  probably  to  inform  her  that 
monsieur,  the  new  lodger,  was 
all  the  time  in  secret  com 
munion  with  Michel  Gulpe. 
He  who  nods  at  the  Devil  is 
no  better  than  the  Devil  him 
sel£ 


PART  THREE 


PART  THREE 


NE  night,  about 
a  month  after  I 
had  made  the 
acquaintance  of 
Michel  Gulpe,  I 
was  sitting  alone  in  my  little 
room  under  the  roof,  smoking 
and  dreaming  upon  fair  days 
long  gone  by,  when  a  fitful 
gust  of  wind  swooped  around  a 
corner  of  the  roof  and  cast  an 


47 


army  of  rain-drops  against  my 
dormer  window  with  such  an 
unexpected  clatter  that  I  held 
my  breath  for  a  moment  expect 
ing  to  see  a  horde  of  night 
creatures  rush  in  upon  me.  I 
looked  at  my  watch.  It  was 
nearly  eleven  o'clock.  Not  a 
sound  could  I  hear  save  the 
mournful  blending  of  the  wind 
and  rain  outside,  and  I  knew 
that  most  of  the  villagers  were 
at  rest  for  the  night. 

Solitude  is  all  very  well  when 
the  wheels  of  one's  fancy  are 
rapidly  at  play,  and  when  one 
can  remain  oblivious  of  the 

48 


present  conditions  under  which 
one  exists.  But  when  there 
comes  a  rude  awakening,  such 
as  is  destined  to  come  sooner 
or  later,  then  the  solitude  erst 
while  so  pleasant  assumes  enor 
mous  proportions  and  the  feel 
ing  of  oppression  that  follows  is 
as  unpleasant  as  the  previous 
sensation  was  pleasant. 

I  laid  down  my  pipe  and 
walked  over  to  the  window. 
The  boards  creaked  dismally 
under  my  feet  as  I  stepped,  and 
I  wondered  what  Madame  Val 
jean  would  think  I  was  doing 
out  of  bed  at  this  unearthly 

49 


time  of  night.  She  would  prob 
ably  think  that,  inasmuch  as  I 
had  wasted  so  much  of  my  time 
of  late  with  Michel  Gulpe,  I 
was  now  up  to  some  sort  of  a 
deal  with  the  Devil  himself. 

I  peered  out  of  the  window 
into  the  darkness.  It  was  a 
good  night  to  be  within  doors, 
I  assured  myself.  The  wind 
was  blowing  heavily  from  the 
sea  and  was  dashing  the  rain  in 
sharp,  slanting  sheets.  At  the 
foot  of  the  hill  I  could  barely 
discern  the  dim  outline  of  the 
little  village  crouching,  as  if 
for  protection  from  the  raging 

50 


storm,  under  the  upstretched 
arms  of  the  solemn  cathedral. 
Everything  was  silent,  black, 
and  dismal.  I  was  about  to 
pull  together  the  curtains  and 
return  to  the  companionship  of 
my  faithful  pipe  when  a  faint 
flash  of  light  just  this  side  of 
the  cathedral  attracted  my 
attention.  Someone  must  be 
up  and  about  after  all,  thought 
I,  and  in  the  Rue  Martel  at 
that.  I  arched  my  hands  over 
my  eyes  and  gazed  fixedly  for  a 
moment  in  the  direction  of 
Michel  Gulpe's  boutique  de  tabac. 
I  caught  the  flash  again ;  this 


time  it  was  more  distinct,  com 
ing  direct  from  where  I  had 
located  the  shop. 

Then  a  sudden  inspiration 
seized  me.  I  would  satisfy  my 
curiosity  as  to  whence  that  light 
came.  After  equipping  myself 
with  high  boots,  great  coat,  and 
drooping  hat,  I  snuffed  my 
candle  and  began  a  perilous 
descent.  Down  the  steep,  nar 
row  stairs  that  led  directly  by 
Madame  Valjean's  room,  I  felt 
my  way,  holding  my  breath  the 
while,  lest  even  that  should  in 
tensify  the  frightful  groan  that 
each  step  uttered  as  my  foot 

52 


pressed  against  it.  I  expected 
at  any  instant  to  be  brought 
to  a  standstill  by  Madame's 
challenge.  I  arrived  at  the 
bottom  in  safety,  however,  and 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  the 
great  door  closed  behind  me, 
leaving  me  free  in  the  open 
air.  But  I  am  quite  sure  that 
I  saw  Madame's  white  night 
cap  pressed  against  the  window 
pane  until  I  reached  the  foot 
of  the  Rue  Royale. 

It  was  no  easy  task  finding 
the  Rue  Martel,  with  the  wind 
and  the  rain  blending  their 
forces  to  bring  me  to  grief, 


53 


the  wind  lashing  me  and  the 
rain  cutting  my  face ;  but  I 
pushed  bravely  ahead  and  at 
last  found  myself  in  front  of 
Michel  Gulpe's  boutique  de  tabac. 
A  thin  streak  of  light  leaked 
through  a  crack  of  the  door 
that  led  from  the  front  shop 
to  the  room  in  the  rear.  In 
that  room  was  the  light  that 
had  caught  my  eye  from  the 
top  of  the  Rue  Royale. 

I  did  not  inform  Michel 
immediately  of  my  presence. 
That  would  have  been  a 
thoughtless  move,  in  truth.  I 
would  first  reconnoitre,  and 

54 


then  judge  as  to  the  feasibility 
of  approaching  or  withdrawing. 
By  the  side  of  the  boutique  de 
tabac^  and  leading  through  to 
the  Rue  du  Nord,  was  a  nar 
row,  tortuous  little  alley,  that 
was  seldom,  if  ever,  used  except 
by  the  small  boys  of  the  village, 
to  whose  minds  the  advantages 
of  a  short-cut  were  many.  I 
knew,  from  certain  guarded  re 
marks  that  I  had  by  chance 
overheard,  that  a  window 
opened  direct  upon  this  alley 
from  Michel  Gulpe's  establish 
ment.  I  also  knew  that  there 
was  no  side  window  in  the 


55 


front  shop.  In  all  probability, 
therefore,  the  window  above  re 
ferred  to  must  lead  from  the 
room  in  the  rear  of  the  shop. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  diffi 
culty  that  I  squeezed  myself 
through  this  narrow  passage-way 
and  reached  the  window.  The 
two  bulging,  wooden  buildings 
between  which  I  stood,  were 
so  closely  pressed  together  as 
to  afford  me  an  exceedingly 
comfortable  shelter  from  the 
swirling,  blustering  storm. 
The  base  of  the  window  was 
somewhat  above  my  head,  but 
as  I  groped  around  in  the  dark 

56 


ness  my  foot  kicked  against 
something  hard  that  proved  to 
be  a  large  block  of  stone 
placed  almost  directly  in  front 
of  the  window.  I  suspect  that 
Jean  and  Sulpice  knew  more 
about  the  history  of  that  stone 
than  anyone  else  in  the  village. 
Luckily,  the  curtains  were  not 
drawn  closely  together  and  an 
opening,  sufficiently  wide  for 
me  to  see  all  that  was  going 
on  within  the  room,  was  left. 

I  stood  breathless  for  a 
moment,  fascinated  by  what  my 
eyes  beheld.  It  seemed  as 
though  I  had  been  suddenly 


57 


transported  to  the  gloomy  cell 
of  Doctor  Faustus,  which  I  had 
once  seen  portrayed  in  an  etch 
ing-  -by  Rembrandt,  I  believe. 
The  room  was  somewhat 
smaller  than  the  front  shop, 
and  was  dimly  lighted  by  a 
fantastically-wrought  metal 
lamp,  that  hung  on  a  chain 
suspended  from  the  ceiling. 
The  half-starved  tongue  of 
flame  sputtered  incessantly  as  if 
to  glean  more  nourishment 
from  its  barren  surroundings, 
and  cast  a  dismal  ray  over  the 
sanctum.  On  a  shelf  near  the 
door  rested  a  row  of  books 

58 


alike  only  in  their  shabby  attire. 
In  the  centre  of  the  room, 
beneath  the  metal  hanging 
lamp,  stood  a  curiously-carved 
table  supported  by  monstrous 
legs  and  paws  curtailed  of  their 
fair  proportions,  on  which  was 
massed,  in  frightful  disarray,  a 
strange  collection  of  hideous 
objects  —  compasses,  alembics, 
vials  of  all  kinds  and  sizes, 
spheres,  manuscripts,  death's 
heads  and  hieroglyphic  parch 
ments.  Along  the  bellied  walls 
were  suspended  a  weird  assort 
ment  of  mounted  animal  skel 
etons,  and  in  a  further  corner, 


59 


with  grinning  skull,  hung  the 
framework  of  a  human  being. 
And  over  all  this  sepulchral 
litter  there  lay,  in  fitting  grace, 
a  grotesquely  fringed  winding 
sheet  of  dust  and  cobwebs. 

And  yet  the  sanctum  was 
not  devoid  of  life.  A  man  sat 
in  an  armchair  bending  over 
the  table.  It  was  Michel 
Gulpe.  His  face  was  bent  so 
low  that  I  could  not  discern 
the  features,  but  I  easily  recog 
nized  the  little  black  cap  and 
the  massive  shoulders  of  the 
man.  In  his  hand  was  a  pestle 
with  which  he  was  grinding 

60 


to  a  powder  some  substance 
contained  in  the  mortar  that 
stood  on  the  table  before  him. 
As  I  stared  at  him  with  be 
wildered  eyes,  he  raised  his 
head.  He  was  facing  the  light 
and  the  rays  of  the  dancing 
flame  cast  an  unnatural  glow 
over  his  strangely  cadaverous 
countenance.  He  continued 
his  work  with  the  pestle  all 
the  while  his  gaze  roamed  rest 
lessly  around  his  retreat. 
From  time  to  time  he  would 
return  his  piercing  black  eyes 
to  the  substance  in  the  mortar. 
I  could  even  see  his  hand 

61 


tremble  when  he  raised  his 
pestle  in  order  to  judge  of  the 
progress  of  his  labor.  Once  he 
arose,  crossed  the  room,  and 
seated  himself  in  a  despairing 
attitude  on  a  couch  that  stood 
beneath  the  shelf  of  rusty 
books.  He  passed  his  hand 
across  his  brow,  as  if  to  cast 
aside  some  shadow  of  a  doubt 
that  impeded  the  continuance 
of  his  task.  But  he  was  on 
his  feet  again  in  an  instant, 
and  returning  to  the  table 
emptied  the  contents  of  a  small 
vial  into  the  mortar  and  began 
working  his  mixture  with  re 

newed  energy. 

62 


Stood  straining  his  eyes,  with 

wild  and  fascinated  gaze.  —  Page  63. 


Finally  he  placed  a  small 
amount  of  the  compound  in  a 
long  glass  tube,  lighted  a  candle 
that  stood  before  him,  and 
placed  the  end  of  the  tube  in 
its  flame.  The  next  instant  he 
let  fall  the  tube  to  the  floor, 
dropped  his  clenched  fists  on 
the  table,  and  stood  straining 
his  eyes,  with  wild  and  fasci 
nated  gaze,  at  something  that 
seemed  to  be  rising  before  his 
face.  At  first  I  could  not 
perceive  what  this  something 
was.  But  the  almost  maniacal 
expression  of  ecstacy  that  over 
spread  Michel's  countenance 

63 


was  so  hypnotic  in  its  intensity 
that  I  felt  my  head  drawn 
nearer  the  pane  and  my  eyes 
nearly  straining  f  r  o  m  their 
sockets  in  a  strenuous  attempt 
to  fathom  the  mystery.  At  last 
I  could  distinguish  the  some 
thing  on  which  his  gaze  was 
riveted.  A  faint  curl  of  vapor 
had  floated  forth  from  the 
heated  contents  of  the  tube 
and  was  ascending  slowly  and 
gracefully  towards  the  ceiling. 
His  eyes  followed  this  softly 
undulating  wreath  as  the  eyes 
of  a  serpent  follow  a  frog,  or 
the  eyes  of  a  cat,  a  bird. 


/ 

64 


Higher,  higher  rose  the  vapory 
curl,  wilder,  wilder  grew 
Michel's  eyes.  Then,  as  the 
edge  of  the  ring  touched  the 
ceiling  and  the  wreath  of  vapor 
slowly  dissolved  itself  into  a 
white,  fluttering  cloud  against 
the  smoky  wall,  Michel  sud 
denly  raised  his  hands  from  the 
table,  and  grasped  a  small  metal 
box  that  lay  beside  the  mortar. 
Scarcely  had  his  hand  touched 
the  box  when  there  was  a  fright 
ful  rattling  of  stones  in  the 
alley,  a  shuffling  of  feet,  a 
stumble,  a  sudden  terrific  howl, 
and  I  went  sprawling  at  full 

65 


length  upon  the  cold,  soggy 
earth.  Then  all  was  still  save 
the  clattering  of  wooden  sabots 
down  the  Rue  Martel,  and  a 
shrill,  tremulous  voice  which  I 
immediately  recognized  as  be 
longing  to  Sulpice  Taubert, 
the  baker's  boy. 

"  Run,  Jean,  run  like  the 
devil!"  he  yelled.  "Old 
Gulpe's  loose  again  and  has 
changed  into  a  black  elephant! ' 

I  was  not  particularly  de 
lighted  with  my  unexpected 
spill,  nor  was  I  at  all  flattered 
at  being  labeled  a  black 
elephant  ;  but  when  I  realized 

66 


that  it  was  Sulpice  Taubert 
who  had  upset  me,  and  not  one 
of  Michel  Gulpe's  red  devils,  I 
quickly  recovered  from  m  y 
sudden  dismay  and  chuckled 
lustily  at  the  disastrous  and 
ignominious  finale  that  had 
come  to  the  midnight  con 
spiracy  of  the  two  young 
rascals. 

As  I  sought  to  regain  my 
feet  the  curtains  above  my 
head  were  cast  wide  apart  and 
the  window  was  thrown  open 
with  a  crash. 

"Aha!  you  young  scoun 
drels!  '  roared  the  deep  voice  of 

67 


Michel  Gulpe,  "  I've  a  mind 
to  change  you  all  into  chickens 
and  wring  your  necks ! 

"Mercy,  Monseigneur, 
mercy!  '  cried  I,  groping 
around  in  the  dark  for  my 
hat  that  had  disappeared  in 
the  collision. 

"  You  there,  monsieur  !  '  he 
exclaimed,  thrusting  his  body 
half-way  through  the  window 
in  his  astonishment.  "  I  swear 
by  the  belly  of  the  Pope  I 
thought  it  was  some  of  those 
young  devils  of  the  village." 

"Not    a     young     devil,"    I 


68 


replied,  guiltily,  "  but  a  full 
grown  devil/' 

"  And  what  are  you  doing 
here  at  this  time  of  night, 
pray  ?  he  asked. 

"  I  —  I  was  merely  passing 
by  your  shop,  monsieur,"  I 
replied,  stammering  in  my 
embarrasment,  "  when  I  heard 
those  little  rascals  prowling 
around  your  window,  and  in 
attempting  to  drive  them  away 
I  -  - 1  slipped  and  fell." 

A  wild  gust  of  wind  swooped 

through    the    little     alley,     and 

cast    a    bucketful    of   raindrops 

in  Michel  Gulpe's  face.     Hastily 

69 


withdrawing  his  gaunt  figure 
within  the  window,  he  ex 
claimed  : 

"  This  is  no  night  for  a 
gentleman  to  be  out  of  doors. 
Come  inside  and  get  dry. 
Besides,  I  want  to  have  a  talk 
with  you." 

With  that  he  slammed  to 
the  window,  and  went  through 
the  shop  to  open  the  door  for 
me.  Mechanically  I  picked 
my  way  out  of  the  alley  and 
entered  the  little  boutique  de 
tabac.  I  was  undecided  as  to 
whether  I  should  brazen  the 
affair  out  or  cast  myself  at 

70 


his     feet     and     cry,     <  Peccavt, 

domine,  peccavif* 

"  Let  us  enter  the  rear 
room,"  said  he,  leading  the 
way.  "  It's  warmer  there  and 
the  wind  and  rain  do  not  beat 
so  drearily  against  the  window." 

We  entered  the  room  -  -  the 
one  where  I  had  witnessed  such 
an  unusual  spectacle  but  a  few 
moments  before.  At  Michel's 
bidding  I  removed  my  heavy 
outer  clothes,  and  seated  myself 
on  a  long,  low  divan  that  rested 
in  front  of  the  window  through 
which  I  had  peered.  Not  a 
word  did  I  utter  all  this  while. 

71 


The  emotions  that  held  me 
slave  were  of  the  kind  that 
come  in  dreams. 

"Drink,"  said  he,  filling  a 
glass  from  a  small  bottle  which 
he  had  taken  from  a  shelf,  and 
passing  it  to  me. 

"This,"  thought  I,  "is  Michel 
Gulpe's  revenge.  I  am  about 
to  be  changed  into  a  chicken 
and  have  my  neck  wrung." 
But  I  drank,  nevertheless,  and 
as  the  fiery  liquor  flowed  down 
my  throat,  and  coursed  through 
my  shivering  body,  and  I  felt 
no  pin-feathers  sprouting  upon 
my  person,  I  knew  that  my 

72 


worst  fears  were  not  to  be 
realized. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Michel, 
seating  himself  in  a  chair  before 
the  table  where  he  had  been 
working,  "  I  wish  to  have  a 
serious  talk  with  you." 

"  But,  Monsieur  Gulpe,"  I 
exclaimed  earnestly,  "  I  assure 
you  on  my  honor  that  I  had 
no  evil  intentions  in  prowling 
around  your  house." 

"  Bah !  '  said  he,  smiling, 
"It's  not  about  that  that  I  wish 
to  speak.  It's  about  an  entirely 
different  matter.  I'm  going  to 
make  a  confidante  of  you.  You 

73 


are  curious  to  know  all  about 
me  and  my  work  —  eh, 
monsieur  ?  ' 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  exceedingly 
abashed  at  the  suddenness  of 
the  question. 

"  Eh  bien"  said  he,  puffing 
leisurely  at  his  long  clay  pipe, 
"  I'm  going  to  tell  you  then." 

I  pinched  myself  to  see  if  I 
was  really  awake. 

"  First  of  all,"  said  he,  trans 
fixing  me  with  his  piercing 
black  eyes,  "  what  I  am  about 
to  tell  you  must  be  kept  in 
strict  secrecy  —  eh  ? ' 

"  In    strict    secrecy,"    said    I, 

74 


regarding  with  curious  eyes  the 
strange  play  of  his  features 
under  the  flickering  rays  of  the 
metal  lamp. 

"  For,"  continued  he,  without 
removing  his  eyes  from  me, 
"  I'm  not  as  yet  ready  to  show 
the  brainless  fools  of  this  village 
that  I  am  not  quite  the  crazy 
old  Michel  they  take  me  for." 

"  I'll  never  mention  a  word 
about  to-night,"  said  I,  emphat 
ically,  meaning  what  I  said,  for 
I  had  reasons  of  my  own  for 
remaining  mute. 

"  I  believe  what  you  say 
monsieur,"  said  he,  "  for  I  know 

75 


you  to  be  a  man  of  honor. 
Eh  bien!  In  the  first  place  you 
must  know  that  only  now  am  I 
on  the  point  of  accomplishing 
that  for  which  I  have  been  striv 
ing  for  more  than  thirty  years 
—  for  longer  than  you  have 
lived,  monsieur.  Every  night 
in  all  that  time  have  I  worked 
in  this  little  shop,  trying  to  solve 
the  one  great  mystery  of  life, 
and  every  night  has  seen  me  in 
exultation  or  in  despair.  At 
times  it  would  seem  as  though 
my  success  were  certain;  then 
again  my  task  would  seem  hope 
less,  and  the  vast,  uncertain 

76 


future  would  deepen  its  hue 
before  my  straining  eyes.  But 
at  last,  monsieur,  have  I  made 
a  discovery  that  will  change  all 
life.  The  powder  which  you 
see  in  that  mortar  is  to  be 
mixed  with  certain  liquids,  and 
the  fumes  arising  from  the 
resulting  mixture  will  revolution 
ize  the  world  of  thought  and 
science. 

"  In  what  way,  you  ask? 
My  investigations  have  taught 
me  many  things,  monsieur.  I 
have  learned  that  the  human 
being  possesses  an  outer  and  an 
inner  soul,  or  an  imperishable 

77 


and  a  perishable  soul.  The  im 
perishable  soul  is  of  divine  origin, 
and  is  transmigratory,  being  des 
tined  to  fulfil  a  prolonged  and 
varied  cycle  of  existence  before 
it  reunites  with  the  divine  nature 
whence  it  came.  This  outer 
soul  is  immaterial,  and  is  dis 
tinct  from  the  body.  The  inner 
or  perishable  soul  is  also  imma 
terial,  but  is  inseparably  united 
with  the  body.  It  consists  of 
the  three  constituents,  Intellect, 
Emotion  and  Will.  When  the 
body  dies  this  inner  soul  dies 
with  it,  and  both  return  to  the 
dust  of  the  earth.  The  outer 

78 


soul,  however,  enters  space 
where  it  remains  until  rehabili 
tated  in  a  new  and  animate  form 
When  it  enters  its  new  abode  it 
is  absolutely  devoid  of  the  men 
tal  energy  included  in  the  inner 
soul.  This  energy  is  cultivated 
during  the  progress  of  develop 
ment  in  the  new  form. 

"  Now,  monsieur,  all  the  per 
plexities  of  science,  religion  and 
life  are  involved  in  the  great  un 
certainty  that  everywhere  pre 
vails  concerning  the  transmigra 
tion  of  the  soul.  I  knew  that 
to  solve  the  mystery  of  myster 
ies  I  must  first  prove  the  truth 

79 


of  metempsychosis.  I  spent 
years  of  the  most  strenuous  la 
bor  in  that  task.  I  delved  into 
every  branch  of  learning,  I  ex 
hausted  the  knowledge  of  others, 
I  manipulated  in  every  conceiv 
able  way  the  practical  and  the 
theoretical.  And  all  to  what 
purpose  ? 

"  I  learned  that  the  Intellect, 
or  thinking  portion  of  our  men 
tal  constitution,  was  entirely  sep 
arate  from  the  emotional  or  en 
ergetic  portions.  I  also  learned 
that  the  soul,  although  imma 
terial,  is  nevertheless  susceptible 
to  impressions.  And  now,  mon 

80 


sieur,  the  result  of  all  my  labors 
comes  into  play,  for  I,  Michel 
Gulpe,  tobacconist  of  the  Rue 
Martel,  and  considered  crazy  by 
my  neighbors,  all  of  whom  are  my 
enemies,  have  discovered  a  mix 
ture  which,  when  injected  into 
the  body,  will  separate  the  Intel 
lect  from  the  inner  soul,  and  im 
press  it  indelibly  upon  the  outer 
soul.  Thus,  when  the  body 
dies,  the  outer  soul  pours  into 
space  and  is  ready  to  enter  into 
a  new  body,  being  fully  endowed 
with  the  power  to  remember ',  com 
pare  and  reason.  Do  you  catch 
the  full  significance  of  what  I 

81 


say,  monsieur  ?  Do  you  realize 
that  I  have  deduced  from  chaos 
the  one  great  hitherto  unex 
plained  problem  of  life  ?  Some 
day,  monsieur,  the  world  will 
proclaim  me  the  greatest  savant 
of  all  times.  And  what  is 
more,  I  have  this  very  night  dis 
covered  the  means  whereby  the 
Will  may  also  be  impressed  upon 
the  outer  soul,  thus  enabling  the 
intellectual  soul  to  direct  its 
course  in  any  way  whatsoever. 
I  have  long  held  the  secret  of 
impressing  the  Intellect  upon 
the  outer  soul,  but  the  manipu 
lation  of  the  Will  has  ever 

82 


seemed  an  impossible  task.  But 
tonight,  just  before  you  came, 
monsieur,  a  divine  spark  ilium 
ined  my  brain,  and  showed  to 
me  a  clear  and  simple  solution 
of  the  problem.  Ah!  but  I  am 
happy;  so  happy!  Can  you  con 
ceive  of  the  possibilities  arising 
from  my  discovery,  monsieur?' 

"  But,"  said  I,  trying  to  un 
ravel  the  meaning  of  all  that  he 
had  said,  "  I  don't  see  that  you 
have  proved  your  fundamental 
idea —  the  transmigration  of  the 
soul.  You  have  no  proof  at  all 
in  that  regard." 

"  No  proof!  "  cried  he  excited 

83 


ly,  his  black  eyes  glittering  in 
the  intensity  of  his  enthusiasm, 
"  Why,  I  have  the  proof  of  it  in 
the  very  history  of  my  own  life." 

"  And  what  may  that  proof 
be  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  is  a  long  —  a  very  long 
- —  story,"  he  said. 

"  Never  mind  that,"  I  ex 
claimed  with  interest.  "I've 
got  the  whole  night  to  listen." 

Without  more  ado  Michel 
Gulpe  arose  from  his  chair, 
squatted  before  me  on  the  floor 
in  true  oriental  fashion,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  relate  the  following 
most  extraordinary  tale. 

84 


PART    FOUR. 


PART  FOUR. 


O  U  have  lived 
here  with  us, 
monsieur,  for 
only  about  a 
month,  and  yet 
you  already  know  what  the  peo 
pie  think  and  say  not  only  of 
me  but  of  everyone  else  who 
happens  by  the  most  trivial 
chance  to  incur  their  disfavor. 
Bah !  they  are  a  herd  of  asses  — 
ignorant,  stubborn  and  super 


stitious.  They  think  only  of 
eating  and  drinking  and  gossip 
ing.  They  vilify  and  besmirch 
everyone;  the  better  the  man, 
the  thicker  the  drivel.  Even 
monsieur  1'Abbe  Philandre 
comes  in  for  his  share  of  the 
scandal  that  pursues  the  goats 
and  the  sheep  alike.  Maybe  I 
am  crazy,  as  they  say  ;  but  you 
can  judge  for  yourself,  monsieur, 
when  you  have  heard  my  story, 
which  is  certainly  strange  but 
nevertheless  true. 

You  will  be  surprised,  my 
friend,  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
am  a  worshipper  of  the  ineffable 

88 


Brahma,  who  is  the  universal 
spirit.  A  profound  study  of  this 
mystic  but  beautiful  religion  has 
convinced  me  of  the  truth  of 
the  doctrine  of  the  transmigra 
tion  of  the  soul.  I  have  lived 
and  you  have  lived  many  lives 
before.  You  can  remember 
this  life  alone.  I,  however,  can 
remember  three  distinct  lives  be 
fore  this. 

The  first  of  these  was  the 
best,  because  it  was  then  that 
an  intense  love  for  Brahma  filled 
my  whole  being.  I  was  the  only 
son  of  an  officer  in  the  French 
army.  He  was  a  noble  man  and 

89 


intelligent,  a  man  much  esteemed 
by  the  people,  a  man  whose 
opinion  was  held  as  conclusive 
and  whose  word  was  law.  He 
had  travelled  much  in  his  youth 
and  had  acquired  a  wide  ac 
quaintance  with  the  world,  so 
wide  that  whenever  there  were 
military  affairs  of  importance  to 
be  conducted  on  foreign  shores 
my  father  was  always  the  man 
to  whom  they  were  entrusted. 
It  thus  happened  that  he  was 
often  sent  on  long  journeys  and, 
as  my  mother  had  died  shortly 
after  I  was  born,  he  not  infre 
quently  took  me  with  him  as  a 

90 


companion,  rather  than  leave 
me  alone  in  the  hands  of  a  rigor 
ous  pedagogue. 

One  of  these  journeys  carried 
my  father  to  India,  and  I  accom 
panied  him.  We  landed  at  Cal 
cutta  and  at  once  travelled  in 
land  to  Nangpore.  There  we 
settled  down  for  several  months, 
my  father  devoting  himself  to 
his  diplomatic  affairs,  and  I  de 
voting  myself  to  roving  about 
the  town  and  through  the  neigh 
boring  country,  getting  acquaint 
ed  with  the  people  and  observ 
ing  their  many  peculiar  customs. 

During  one  of  my  lonely  ex 

91 


cursions  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
town  I  passed  a  bungalow  of 
modest  proportions,  on  the  low, 
shaded  verandah  of  which  sat  a 
man  whose  unusual,  distin 
guished  air  attracted  my  boyish 
curiosity  at  once.  He  was  tall, 
thin,  of  a  deep  olive  color,  and 
had  an  abundance  of  heavy  black 
hair  that  fell  to  his  shoulders. 
But  most  remarkable  of  all  were 
his  black  eyes  that  seemed  to  pen 
etrate  one's  innermost  soul. 

We  immediately  exchanged 
courtesies,  as  was  customary  in 
that  country,  and  I,  at  his  invi 
tation,  seated  myself  on  a  low 

92 


stool  near  the  door-way.  I  soon 
found,  to  my  keen  delight,  that 
he  could  speak  excellent  French, 
and  in  a  very  short  time  we  be 
came  the  best  of  friends.  Imam, 
for  that  was  the  name  by  which 
he  asked  me  to  address  him  — 
Imam  Nath  being  his  full  name 
—  soon  proved  himself  a  most 
interesting  conversationalist.  He 
seemed  to  divine  immediately 
the  subjects  that  interested  me 
most,  for  he  related  to  me  many 
of  his  strange  and  thrilling  adven 
tures  in  the  wilds  and  jungles 
of  India.  It  was  long  after  sun 
set  when  I  left  him  and  returned 

93 


to  the  town ;  but  before  we  part 
ed  he  made  me  promise  to  visit 
him  again  the  next  day. 

The  next  day,  and  every  sue 
ceeding  day  until  I  left  Nang 
pore,  found  me  in  the  company 
of  my  good  friend  Imam  Nath. 
He  was  a  man  of  the  most  pro 
found  learning,  and  we  soon  be 
came  involved  in  a  series  of  doc 
trinal  and  philosophical  discus 
sions  that  were  not  only  instruc 
tive,  but  even  persuasive  to  me; 
for,  though  a  boy,  I  was  almost 
as  subtle  a  thinker  as  I  am  now. 
I  learned  that  he  was  a  faithful 
disciple  of  that  unique  branch  of 


94 


the  Brahmin  faith  taught  only 
at  Pushkara  in  Rajputana,  of 
which  district  he  was  a  native. 
He  took  it  upon  himself  to  escort 
me  into  the  mysterious  and  fas 
cinating  depths  of  that  faith. 
At  first  I  was  incredulous.  I 
thought  he  was  merely  reciting 
for  me  some  of  the  fairy  tales  of 
his  country.  But  soon  I  became 
aware  that  he  was  thoroughly  in 
earnest,  and  that  there  was  in 
disputable  truth  in  what  he  said. 
He  read  to  me  many  passages 
from  the  divine  writings  of 
Manu,  and  I  can  remember  even 
now  how  I  sat  spellbound  one 

95 


evening  in  front  of  his  house, 
while  he  told  me  of  the  origin 
of  Brahma,  and  the  way  in 
which  he  created  heaven  and 
earth. 

"  Manu  tells,"  said  he,  "how 
this  universe  was  enveloped  in 
impenetrable  darkness,  entirely 
sunk,  as  it  were,  in  sleep.  Then 
the  omnipotent  self-existent 
Lord,  indiscernible,  caused  this 
universe  with  the  five  elements 
to  become  discernible.  He  who 
is  beyond  the  cognizance  of  the 
senses,  himself  shone  forth.  He, 
desiring,  seeking  to  produce  va 
rious  creatures  from  his  own 

96 


body,  first  created  the  waters, 
and  deposited  in  them  a  seed. 
This  became  a  golden  egg,  re 
splendent  as  the  sun,  from  which 
he  himself  was  born  as  Brahma, 
the  progenitor  of  all  the  worlds. 
Being  formed  by  that  First 
Cause,  indiscernible,  eternal, 
which  is  both  existent  and  non 
existent,  that  male  is  known  in 
the  world  as  Brahma.  That 
Lord  having  continued  a  year  in 
the  egg,  divided  it  into  two  parts 
by  his  mere  thought.  With 
these  two  shells  he  formed  the 
heavens  and  the  earth ;  and  in 
the  middle  he  placed  the  sky, 

97 


the  eight   regions,  and   the  eter 
nal  abode  of  the  waters." 

As  I  sat  there,  motionless  and 
speechless,  drinking  in  the  words 
of  wisdom  as  they  flowed  from 
the  mouth  of  Imam,  the  flaming 
sun  sank  low  on  the  far-ofF 
western  hills,  the  clouds  of  night 
gathered  loweringly  in  the 
wooded  east,  the  swift-rising 
breath  of  darkness  whispered 
mournfully  through  the  neigh 
boring  trees,  and  the  birds  and 
beasts  of  the  wood  sought  their 
peaceful  rest.  And  as  Imam 
continued  and  told  me  further 
of  the  truths  and  mysteries  of 

98 


the  East,  the  tears  came  to  my 
eyes  and  my  soul  was  filled  with 
happiness,  for  I  knew  that  I  had 
found  that  certainty  for  which 
men  seek. 

I  told  Imam  of  my  sudden 
conviction  and  he,  gazing  tender 
ly  on  me  with  his  lustrous  eyes, 
and  raising  his  hands  towards 
heaven,  called  down  the  blessing 
of  the  Universal  Spirit  upon  my 
head.  Then  he  bade  me  enter 
his  bungalow  where,  after  many 
mysterious  signs  and  mutterings, 
he  presented  me  with  a  small 
vial  containing  a  peculiar,  green 
ish  liquid,  saying: 

99 


"  This,  my  son,  is  the  most 
extraordinary  fluid  known  to 
mortal  man,  a  fluid  for  which 
the  wise  men  of  all  times  have 
sought,  a  fluid  which  is  disclosed 
to  but  two  living  souls  in  the 
whole  wide  world,  one  an  old 
priestess  of  Pushkara,  who  re 
ceived  the  receipt  from  the  Uni 
versal  Spirit  itself,  the  other  my 
self.  Take  this  vial,  my  son, 
and  when  thou  feelest  the  cold 
hand  of  Death  approaching  thy 
throat,  press  it  to  thy  lips  and 
swallow  the  wine  contained 
therein.  It  will  make  thee  re 
member  in  thy  new  life  all  that 
has  occurred  in  thy  past  lives. 


IOO 


Bless  thee,  my  son,  bless  thee." 
And  I,  with  the  breath  of 
night  whispering  softly  to  me 
through  the  high  trees  along 
the  way,  trudged  back  to  the 
town  over  the  rough,  dark  road 
—  for  night  had  fallen  over  the 
country  in  all  its  intensity  — 
reflecting  on  the  wonderful 
things  that  I  had  heard,  and  the 
beautiful  light  that  had  entered 
my  soul. 

In  the  course  of  time  my 
father  and  I  returned  to  France 
where  I,  having  an  ample  income 
left  me  by  my  mother,  devoted 
most  of  my  time  to  my  studies 


IOJ 


and  to  the  furtherance  of  my 
philosophical  investigations.  I 
worked  hard,  read  many  books, 
and  listened  daily  to  the  teach 
ings  of  the  learned  men  of  Paris. 
To  me  the  theory  of  transmigra 
tion  became  a  most  fascinating 
subject  for  study  and  individual 
research,  and  from  early  morn 
ing  till  late  at  night  I  delved 
into  the  discoveries  of  the  past 
and  sought  to  probe  the  myster 
ies  of  the  present.  My  brain 
became  filled  with  all  that  was 
known  on  the  subject  of  Me 
tempsychosis,  and  I  even  succeed 
ed  in  solving  satisfactorily  to 


IO2 


myself  many  problems  that  had 
hitherto  lain  in  darkness. 

With  all  my  close  application 
to  work,  however,  I  still  had 
time  and  sense  enough  left  at 
my  disposal  to  —  to  fall  in  love. 
It  seems  foolish  indeed,  mon 
sieur,  for  a  man  of  learning  to 
do  such  a  rash  thing — but  I 
humbly  confess  that  I  fell  in 
love,  and  heels  over  head  at  that. 
She  was  a  most  divine  creature 
to  look  upon  and  to  know,  and 
zealously  as  I  had  pursued  my 
various  studies,  just  so  zealously 
did  I  pursue  the  art  of  gallan 
try.  And  I  assure  you  that  there 

103 


were  intricacies  in  the  latter  that 
were  even  more  difficult  to  un 
ravel  than  were  some  in  the 
former.  But  I  persevered-  -I 
was  never  given  to  yielding  when 
once  I  undertook  to  accomplish 
an  object,  —  and  in  the  course 
of  a  few  months  she  succumbed 
to  my  importunities.  We  were 
married  shortly  afterwards,  and 
entered  upon  our  career  of  bliss 
with  all  the  fervor  of  youth. 

The  strange  part  of  my  story 
is  yet  to  come,  monsieur.  We 
had  not  been  married  a  month 
when  I  fell  ill  and  died.  No 
sooner  had  I  felt  the  grip  of 

104 


death  upon  my  throat,  however, 
than  I  swallowed  the  contents 
of  the  vial  which  my  good 
friend  Imam  Nath  had  given 
me.  Ah !  with  what  keen  re 
gret  did  I  gaze  upon  my  beauti 
ful  wife  as  she  stood  weeping  by 
my  bedside,  and  reflect  upon 
the  perversity  of  a  fate  that 
could  separate  such  congenial 
souls.  How  I  deplored  the 
fact  that  I  must  relinquish  this 
life,  the  joys  of  which  I  had 
just  begun  to  taste.  But  I 
died,  monsieur,  and  oblivion 
settled  upon  me.  I  knew  noth 
ing,  I  felt  nothing,  I  was  noth 

105 


ing.  It  was  as  if  I  had  entered 
into  a  black,  subterranean  tun 
nel,  leaving  the  last  rays  of  light 
and  life  far  in  the  rear. 

How  long  I  remained  in  this 
state,  in  this  Lethean  tunnel,  I 
know  not.  But  at  last  a  sud 
den  ray  of  light  appeared  and 
I  evolved  again  into  light  and 
life.  I  opened  my  eyes  and 
gazed  curiously  upwards.  I  was 
lying  on  my  back  in  a  large, 
hot  room,  with  a  superabun 
dance  of  cloths  wrapped  about 
my  perspiring  body.  A  pleasant 
appearing  woman  with  a  white 
cap  and  apron  stood  by  my 

1 06 


side  gazing  tenderly  upon  me. 
As  I  opened  my  eyes,  she  patted 
my  cheek  and  kissed  me  in  the 
mouth.  I  became  exceedingly 
angry  at  her  familiarity  and 
attempted  to  remonstrate  with 
her.  But  I  found  to  my  utter 
dismay  that  I  could  not  speak 
a  word,  only  a  shrill,  foolish 
squawk  issuing  from  my  lips. 
So  frightened  was  I  that  I  tried 
to  rub  my  head  and  see  if  it 
was  there.  My  arm  was  bun 
gling  and  awkward,  but  I  man 
aged  to  flounder  it  around  so 
as  to  touch  my  hand  to  my  hair. 
Imagine  my  stupefaction,  mon 

107 


sieur,  to  discover  that  I  had  no 
hair.  I  bit  my  lips  in  my  per 
plexity,  but  I  suffered  no  pain 
for  I  discovered  also  that  I  had 
no  teeth.  Then  I  began  to 
thresh  and  kick,  but  my  move 
ments  were  like  those  of  a 
lobster  out  of  its  element,  stiff, 
clumsy,  and  unavailing. 

The  woman  in  white,  seeing 
my  struggles,  patted    me    again 
on  the  cheek,  saying  softly: 
"  Oh  !  the  little  sweetheart! ' 
Little  sweetheart  !      What  the 
devil     could      she      mean  ?        I 
thought    hard     and    fast    for    a 
moment,  and  then  of  a  sudden 

108 


the  whole  thing  came  across 
my  brain  like  a  flash.  I  had 
been  born  again  and  my  soul, 
in  its  transmigration,  had  car 
ried  impressed  upon  it  my  Intel 
lect.  The  prescription  of  my 
good  friend,  Imam,  was  doing 
its  work.  But,  sad  to  relate, 
he  had  either  forgotten  all 
about  the  Will,  or  had  been  un 
able  to  prescribe  for  it.  Would 
that  I  had  known  all  this 
before.  I  now  fully  realized 
the  terrible  predicament  in 
which  I  was — born  again  with 
a  perfectly  developed  intellect 


109 


and  the  impotent  body  of 
an  infant. 

I  wondered  whether  I  was  a 
boy  or  a  girl,  I  was  begin 
ning  to  fall  a  sacrifice  to  this 
new  horror,  when  the  woman 
in  white  spoke  again  : 

"  What  a  bright  little  fellow 
he  is." 

Thank  heavens !  In  this  re 
gard  at  least  my  fears  were 
allayed. 

I  lay  awake  all  that  night 
giving  much  careful  considera 
tion  to  the  predicament  which 
had  fallen  to  my  lot.  I  in 
wardly  cursed  the  hour  when 


no 


first  I  had  yielded  to  the  temp 
tation  of  knowing  more  than  is 
allotted  the  ordinary  man  to 
know.  Not  for  a  moment, 
however,  did  I  think  of  casting 
the  blame  upon  Imam  Nath, 
for  his  intentions  had  been  of 
the  best.  I  had  only  myself  to 
blame,  and  I  viewed  my  case 
with  jaundiced  eyes. 

My  previous  life  floated  back 
before  me,  but  only  one  object 
stood  forth  to  harass  my  sore 
spirit.  That  object  was  the 
one  that  I  adored  above  all 
others — my  wife.  I  wondered 
where  she  was  now,  and 


whether  she  was  alive.  1 1 
might  have  been  a  hundred 
years  before  that  I  had  lived  my 
first  life,  for  all  I  knew.  It 
appalled  me  when  I  thought 
that  I  must  pass  through  the 
several  stages  of  a  new  life, 
while  she,  my  beautiful  wife, 
was  either  lying  cold  in  death 
or  was  again  in  the  world,  her 
peerless  soul  enshrined  in  a  new 
body.  Oh  that  she  had  pos 
sessed  a  ftask  of  eternal  damna 
tion  such  as  Imam  Nath  had 
presented  to  me,  for  then  we 
could  both  spend  our  days  in 
seeking  each  other.  Fain  would 


112 


I  have  shared  with  her  the  con 
tents  of  the  vial  before  I  had 
greedily  gulped  them  down  at 
the  hour  of  my  death.  But  it 
was  too  late  now,  and  as  I  lay 
on  my  back  in  the  darkness, 
tears  of  sorrow  rolled  over  my 
face  and  dropped  on  the  pillow 
where  I  lay. 

Suddenly  a  light  was  brought 
into  the  room  and  placed  on  a 
table  not  far  from  my  bed.  I 
again  heard  the  voice  of  the 
woman  in  white,  but  this  time 
she  was  not  addressing  me,  but 
a  third  person  who  seemed  to 
be  in  the  room.  For  a 

113 


moment  I  wondered  who  it 
might  be,  then  it  dawned  upon 
my  whirling  brain  that  it  must 
be  my  mother.  I  had  forgotten 
until  then  that  of  necessity  I 
must  have  a  new  mother.  I 
was  wondering  what  sort  of 
creature  she  might  be.  I  was 
always  excessively  fastidious 
about  women,  and  I  was  anx 
ious  to  know  what  sort  of 
mother  I  had  drawn. 

"  How  is   madame  feeling?  ' 
asked  the  woman  in  white. 

The  voice  that  gave  answer 
sent  a  wicked  chill  of  despair 
tearing  through  m  y  feeble 

114 


body,  for  it  belonged  to 
Madame  Bonsard,  a  shrewish 
individual  who  inhabited  the 
apartments  beneath  those  occu 
pied  by  my  wife  and  myself — 
in  my  first  life.  How  my  little 
heart  flopped  when  I  realized 
that  she,  my  beautiful  wife,  was 
in  all  probability  within  a  very 
short  distance  from  me  at  that 
very  moment !  I  could  almost 
see  her  as  she  sat  before  the 
long,  oval  mirror  in  our  room 
combing  her  luxuriant  hair, 
which  cast  a  delightful  fra 
grance  to  my  amorous  nostrils. 

D  J 

I    could    almost    see    the    soft, 

"5 


white  gown  that  I  like  so 
well,  and  with  which  she 
adorned  her  graceful  figure 
every  morning  to  please  my 
fancy. 

And  I,  a  helpless  infant,  the 
son  of  a  woman  whom  I  de 
tested  above  all  other  women, 
lay  there  on  my  back,  wallow 
ing  in  the  reek  of  my  own 
despair.  Gladly  would  I  have 
been  born  to  any  other  woman 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  than 
to  Madame  Bonsard.  She  was 
a  termagant  of  the  deepest  dye, 
and  her  peppery  temper  had 
many  times  sacrificed  me  during 

116 


my  first  life.  She  strenuously 
objected  to  my  smoking,  claim 
ing  that  the  clouds  of  tobacco 
smoke  which  flowed  down  into 
her  apartments  interfered  with 
her  breathing.  I  wondered  if 
she  would  object  to  my  smok 
ing  now.  A  fragrant  pipe  in 
my  present  mood  would  have 
been  a  luxury,  indeed  ! 

Then  again  my  new  mother 
had  been  an  inveterate  gossip- 
monger.  My  wife  and  I  could 
not  exchange  an  idea  without 
the  whole  neighborhood  hearing 
about  it.  Whatever  imperfec 
tion  my  mother  might  have 

117 


with  her  breathing  apparatus 
was  more  than  offset  by  the 
keenness  of  her  hearing  appara 
tus.  She  was  also  possessed  of 
an  incurable  mania  for  borrow 
ing,  and  had  already  acquired 
many  of  our  household  belong 
ings  before  I  died.  Even  now, 
as  I  let  my  eyes  roam  round 
the  chamber  in  the  faint  glim 
mer  of  dawn,  I  saw  on  the 
mantel  a  bronze  shaving -mug 
that  my  wife  had  given  me 
before  we  were  married.  Mon 
sieur  Bonsard  had,  indeed, 
reaped  some  benefit  from  my 
early  demise.  But  it  was  all  in 

118 


the  family   now,   so  what  did  it 
matter? 

Monsieur  Bonsard  —  my 
father !  I  had  not  thought  of 
this  before,  but  it  must  be  so, 
for  Madame  Bonsard  was  ever  a 
faithful  wife,  if  nothing  more. 
Poor,  old  Monsieur  Bonsard! 
How  I  had  pitied  him  when  I 
was  in  my  first  life!  Fat,  lazy 
and  parasitical,  he  always  re 
tained  about  his  person  the 
greasy  odor  of  a  penny  bake 
shop.  Aside  from  pity,  I  never 
acquired  any  affection  for  him 
—  my  new  father — because  he 
was  continually  borrowing  my 


tobacco  and  coming  up  into 
our  apartments  to  smoke  it,  in 
order  to  escape  the  sharp  tongue 
of  his  spouse.  He  hated  her, 
she  hated  him,  and  I  detested 
them  both. 

Thus  began  my  second  life. 
During  the  days  that  followed  I 
had  intense  longings  to  see  again 
the  partner  of  my  previous  joys 
and  sorrows.  Every  time  that 
I  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps 
overhead  my  heart  throbbed 
with  excitement.  But  I  was 
kept  in  strict  seclusion  for  sev 
eral  days,  seeing  only  the  woman 
in  white  and  Madame,  my 


I2O 


mother.  Monsieur,  my  father, 
must  have  been  camping  out  in 
the  cellar  for  he  never  put  in  an 
appearance  during  all  of  my 
mother's  illness.  It  was  doubt 
less  a  boon  to  him.  The  two 
women  petted  me  and  covered 
me  with  kisses,  but  it  was  no 
pleasure  to  me,  I  can  assure  you. 
I  became  nervous  and  fretful, 
and  even  refused  to  partake  of 
the  nourishment  that  was  offered 
me.  I  was  always  a  modest 
youth,  and  besides  I  did  not 
care  for  the  flavor  of  Madame 
Bonsard's  milk. 

One  day,  as  I  lay  on  my  back 


121 


watching  the  festive  flies  as  they 
gamboled  o'er  the  ceiling,  and 
patiently  awaiting  whatever  new 
horror  that  might  be  sprung  upon 
me,  the  door  to  my  room  opened 
softly  and  I  heard  the  sweet 
rustle  of  lingerie  that  was  always 
music  to  my  ear.  Almost  imme 
diately  I  felt  a  soft,  warm  hand 
placed  against  my  cheek,  and 
looking  to  one  side  I  saw,  stand 
ing  before  me  in  all  the  magnifi 
cence  of  her  youthful  beauty, 
my  wife.  She  looked  quite  the 
same  as  she  had  on  the  day  that 
I  died  and,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  sombre  black  in  which  she 


122 


She  looked  quite  the  same  as  she 
had  on  the  day  that  I  died.— Page  122. 


was  clothed,  I  could  easily  have 
imagined  that  she  had  just  re 
turned  from  a  shopping  tour  in 
the  city,  and  was  about  to  order 
Nannette  to  prepare  our  dinner. 
Ah,  what  a  beautiful  creature 
she  was !  I  gazed  at  her  for  a 
moment  with  devouring  eyes 
and  then,  unable  to  contain  my 
self  longer,  I  stretched  out  my 

O         7  J 

little  arms  for  her  to  come  to 
my  heart. 

She  looked  me  over  curiously 
for  an  instant  with  her  lustrous, 
brown  eyes. 

"Oh,   what  a  clever  little  fel 


123 


low!  '     she  said  at  last,  chucking 
me  under  the  chin. 

I,  her  own  husband,  a  clever 
little  fellow !  It  was  too,  too 
much  for  my  tender,  loving 
heart,  and  I  burst  into  tears 
hoping  thereby  to  strengthen  my 
cause.  But  the  mature  emotion 
that  I  had  expected  and  which 
is  so  effective,  did  not  arrive,  and 
instead  I  emitted  a  series  of 
shrieks  and  squawks  that  come 
only  from  an  ugly  infant.  I 
found  that  I  had  absolutely  no 
command  over  my  lachrymal 
glands  or  my  vocal  chords,  and 
so  exasperated  did  I  become  at 

124 


the  puerility  of  my  grief,  that  I 
began  to  kick  and  writhe  in 
agony.  My  wife  patted  me 
again  on  the  cheek,  but  that 
served  only  to  increase  my 
wrath,  and  I  strove  with  all 
my  power  to  burst  a  blood 
vessel,  so  as  to  free  myself  from 
this  horrible  nightmare.  But 
I  must  have  been  a  sturdy 
youngster,  for  I  was  still  alive 
after  the  woman  in  white  had 
taken  my  wife  from  the  room. 

That  night  and  all  the  follow 
ing  day  I  refused  nourishment 
from  Madame  Bonsard.  My 
heart  was  in  a  tumult  of  con 

125 


flicting  emotions,  and  at  times 
it  seemed  as  though  I  should 
go  insane  as  I  reflected  on  how 
my  wife  had  chucked  me  under 
the  chin  and  called  me  a  clever 
little  fellow. 

I  realized  that  I  had  driven 
my  wife  from  my  side  by  my 
sudden  outburst  of  passion.  At 
first  I  was  glad  that  she  had 
gone,  and  tried  to  console  my 
self  with  the  thought  that  she 
was  not  deserving  of  any  honest 
afFection.  But  soon,  after  I  had 
cooled  off  somewhat,  I  again 
found  myself  listening  intently 
for  the  sound  of  footfalls  in  the 

126 


apartments  above.  At  last  my 
quick  ears  caught  the  tread  of 
feet;  but  of  a  sudden  my  heart 
beat  double  time  as  I  realized 
that  the  footsteps  I  heard  were 
not  those  of  my  wife.  They 
were  heavy  and  slow.  There 
was  a  man  in  my  wife's  room. 
A  great  wave  of  jealousy  suffused 
my  soul,  and  piled  additional 
weights  upon  my  already  un 
bearable  grief.  Oh,  woman, 
woman,  what  will  you  not  do! 
Like  the  pale-faced  poet  I 
longed  for  some  Utopia  where 
women  are  not  devils  till  they 
die. 

127 


Who  could  this  male  pedes 
trian  be?  Neither  I  nor  my 
wife  had  brothers,  her  father 
was  dead,  while  mine  was 
always  too  occupied  with  affairs 
of  state  to  squander  his  time 
in  a  lady's  boudoir — especially 
in  that  of  his  daughter-in-law. 
Could  it  be  that  my  wife  was 
unfaithful  to  me?  It  certainly 
seemed  out  of  accord  with  her 
nature,  but  then,  what  could 
a  man  expect  of  a  wife  who 
chucked  him  under  the  chin  and 
called  him  a  clever  little  fellow? 

I  began  to  grow  hysterical  as 
I  thought  of  all  these  possibili 

128 


ties  and,  try  as  they  might, 
neither  the  woman  in  white  nor 
Madame  Bonsard  could  soothe 
my  harassed  soul.  Finally  I 
became  so  unmanageable  in  my 
efforts  to  throw  off  this  odious 
second  life  that  my  mother 
grew  exceedingly  alarmed,  and 
ordered  the  woman  in  white  to 
send  for  a  physician.  She  re 
turned  almost  immediately  with 
monsieur  le  docteur  Bache  and, 
oh,  monsieur,  the  sorrow  of  it 
all !  — accompanying  him  was- 
my  wife.  His,  then,  were  the 
footsteps  that  I  had  heard  in 
the  apartments  above.  Bache,  a 

129 


fine-looking  young  physician, 
had  lived  in  rooms  above  the 
apartments  occupied  by  my  wife 
and  myself  in  my  first  life.  He 
had  seemed  to  be  a  very  decent 
fellow,  and  I  had  never  sus 
pected  him  of  plotting  against 
my  happiness.  But  now  I  saw 
through  it  all  in  an  instant.  I 
suddenly  remembered  how  often 
he  had  dropped  into  our  rooms 
to  pass  an  evening  with  my  wife 
and  myself  and,  as  those  days 
came  back  more  clearly  before 
my  eyes,  I  could  even  recollect 
certain  little  side-glances  that  he 
had  given  her  when  he  thought 

130 


I  was  not  looking.  I  realized 
now  that  this  had  meant  more 
than  ordinary  friendship,  and 
that  my  early  demise  had  served 
only  to  bring  about  an  earlier 
fulfillment  of  his  hellish 
schemes.  Oh,  the  wretch! 

He  came  over  to  where  I  lay 
and  placed  his  hand  on  my  fore 
head.  I  had  a  sudden  desire  to 
bite  a  big  piece  out  of  him,  but 
I  remembered  that  I  was  tooth 
less. 

"Is  the  little  fellow  very  ill, 
dear?'  asked  my  wife,  placing 
her  hand  lovingly  on  the  young 
doctor's  arm. 

'31 


"Not  very,  sweetheart,"  he 
replied,  patting  her  fondly  on 
the  waist.  "The  little  brat  is 
only  ugly.  I  fancy  I  can  pull 
him  through  all  right." 

Little  fellow !  Dear!  Sweet 
heart !  Brat !  This  was  all  too 
much  for  me.  I  gave  one  last 
struggle,  uttered  a  horrible 
squawk,  struck  forth  for  that 
devil  of  a  doctor  with  all  my 
strength,  felt  something  sud 
denly  burst  within  my  head  and 
- — died  a  second  time. 

A  second  time,  monsieur,  I 
entered  that  tunnel  of  night 
perpetual,  and  a  second  time  I 

132 


rolled  forth  into  the  sweet  glow 
of  life.  Sweet  glow,  did  I  say  ? 
Nay,  nay,  anything  but  sweet  to 
me.  Fain  would  I  have 
remained  undisturbed  in  that 
chaotic  abyss  of  nothingness  for 
all  time.  Life  held  no  further 
charms  for  my  wearied  soul,  and 
I  shuddered  as  I  thought  of 
what  horrors  might  be  lying  in 
wait  for  me. 

My  first  recollection  of  this 
third  life  was  a  most  violent 
rocking  sensation.  Then  my 
ears  became  filled  with  a  terrible 
creaking  and  roaring,  and  I 
felt  myself  swaying  rudely  to 

'33 


and  fro  in  the  darkness  that  was 
enveloping  me.  I  wondered  in 
what  sort  of  nest  I  had  chanced 
to  alight  this  time.  Mayhap  I 
was  a  pretty  little  bird,  nestling 
in  the  swaying  boughs  of  a  lofty 
tree.  I  hoped  that,  if  such 
were  the  case,  the  trunk  of  the 
tree  was  sufficiently  staunch, 
and  my  nest  was  sufficiently 
well  attached,  for  I  was  not 
especially  desirous  at  that 
moment  of  exploring  the  un 
known  depths  that  might  lie 
beneath  me.  Or  could  it  be 
that  I  was  in  a  cradle  at  the 
mercy  of  another  woman  in 


white?  This,  however,  would 
not  account  for  the  frightful 
hullabaloo  that  was  going  on 
all  around  me.  I  began  to  feel 
queer  in  my  stomach,  and  won 
dered  what  I  could  have  eaten 
for  my  dinner  that  should  have 
so  disagreed  with  me.  'With 
me,'  I  repeated  to  myself.  <  Who 
am  I  ?  What  am  I  ?  Where  am 
I  ? '  I  was  trying  to  the  best 
of  my  ability  to  unravel  the 
mystery  that  surrounded  me, 
when  a  fearful  and  unexpected 
lurch  almost  turned  me  inside 
out,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
creaking  and  the  roaring 
doubled  their  intensity 


Suddenly  I  heard  a  feeble  cry 
not  far  from  where  I  lay.  I 
listened  eagerly  and  heard  it 
again.  It  was  the  voice  of  a 
human  being.  The  cry  was 
repeated  several  times,  and  was 
unmistakably  that  of  a  woman. 
Then  a  moment  later  I  heard, 
amidst  all  the  raging  and  roar 
ing  of  whatever  was  going  on 
about  me,  another  cry,  this  time 
that  of  a  man.  What  language 
these  people  spoke  or  what  they 
were  saying  I  could  not  distin 
guish  for  the  deafening  noise 
round  about  me.  Of  a  sudden, 
however,  there  flashed  up  before 

136 


my  eyes  a  light  that,  from  its 
unexpectedness,  nearly  blinded 
me.  I  winked  and  blinked  for 
a  minute  before  I  could  calm 
my  optic  nerves  sufficient  to 
obtain  a  clue  as  to  my  sur 
roundings. 

I  perceived  that  I  was  in  a 
small,  cell-like  chamber  with 
white  rafters  extending  over  my 
head.  I  looked  long  and  hard 
for  any  sign  of  the  rich  hang 
ings  and  tapestries  and  works  of 
art  that  it  had  ever  been  my  lot 
to  enjoy.  But  not  a  trace  of 
anything  of  the  sort  met  my 
eyes.  <It  must  be  poor  com 

137 


pany  I  have  come  into  this 
time/  thought  I.  I  tried  to 
roll  over  on  my  side  so  as  to  see 
more  of  the  cell  and  to  scrutin 
ize  my  new  companions.  But 
I  discovered  to  my  horror  that 
I  was  held  down  by  a  strap  and 
could  not  move.  And  this 
with  the  cell  rolling  round  like 
a  ball  on  a  floor!  It  was 
more  than  my  nerves  could 
stand,  and  I  began  to  yell  at 
the  top  of  my  lungs. 

At  that,  the  woman  spoke: 
"  Jean,  dear,  won't  you  please 
try    to    do    something    for    that 
child." 

138 


And,  lo  and  behold,  the  voice 
was  that  of  my  wife  in  my  first 
life!  I  began  to  shriek  anew. 

"Shut  up,  you  little  brat," 
growled  the  voice  of  the  man. 

And  the  voice  was  that  of 
Monsieur  le  docteur  Bache. 

I  heard  it  all.  I  saw  it  all. 
I  understood  it  all.  My  wife 
and  Monsieur  le  docteur  Bache 
were  now  joined  together  in  the 
holy  bonds  of  matrimony  and 
I,  my  wife's  husband,  was  their 
legitimate  offspring. 

The  blood  of  my  ancestors 
coursed  in  raging  torrents 

through  my  veins.      I  shuddered 

o         / 

139 


at  the  ignominy  of  it  all.  To 
think  that  I,  my  wife's  own  hus 
band,  should  also  be  her  own 
child,  and  that  Bache,  the 
scoundrel,  should  have  the 
audacity  to  call  me  "a  little 
brat!'  But  then,  was  he  not 
my  wife's  husband  also,  and  my 
father  ?  She  had  two  husbands 
now,  both  were  living,  and  one 
was  her  own  child.  Would  that 
I  had  never  known  the  woman! 
She  was  a  badge  of  infamy,  and 
had  brought  dishonor  upon  the 
fair  name  of  our  family.  Still, 
if  I  were  the  son  of  Bache,  was 
not  my  name  Bache  also?  My 
140 


poor  father!  What  would  he 
have  said  could  he  have  known 
the  shameless  pit  into  which  I 
had  fallen! 

A  tremor,  more  relentless 
than  any  that  had  preceded, 
shook  the  cell  and  everything  in 
it. 

"O,  Jean,  dear,"  cried  my 
wife,  "do  you  think  the  ship  is 
going  to  sink? ' 

Ship!  We  were  in  a  ship 
then,  and  at  the  mercy  of  a 
storm  on  the  high  seas.  This 
accounted  for  all  the  terrible 
rushing  and  roaring  that  was 
deafening  my  poor  ears.  <It 


141 


must  be  a  bad  storm,  too,'  I 
thought,  from  the  way  things 
were  changing  places  in  our 
cabin.  A  horrible  thought  then 
took  possession  of  me.  What 
if  the  ship  should  go  down? 
How  could  I  make  any  effort 
to  save  myself  while  I  was  thus 
bound  down  hard  and  fast  in  my 
berth?  I  struggled  with  all  my 
strength  to  release  myself,  but 
I  could  make  no  headway 
against  the  infernal  strap  that 
encircled  my  abdomen.  I  felt 
that  I  was  doomed  in  case  any 
accident  should  occur.  The 
thought  made  me  frantic,  and  I 


142 


redoubled  my  yelling,  hoping 
that  some  kind  soul  would  have 
mercy  on  my  helplessness  and 
let  me  loose. 

"Jean,"  said  my  wife,  plead 
ingly,  "won't  you  please 
quiet  the  baby?  ' 

"I'll  strangle  it  if  it  doesn't 
shut  up,"  replied  the  brute. 

"Strangle  me!  I  should  like 
to  see  you  make  an  attempt, 
you  devil!  "  thought  I,  trying  to 
grit  my  gums. 

The  severity  of  the  storm  was 
increasing  every  minute,  and 
the  old  ship  reeled  and  ducked 
as  though  she  were  trying  to 


touch  bottom.  I  could  hear 
strange,  unpleasant  noises  in  the 
adjoining  cabins,  which  sounded 
as  if  people  had  swallowed  but 
tons  and  were  trying  to  get 
them  up  again.  The  timbers 
creaked  and  groaned,  and  the 
ship  throbbed  from  stem  to 
stern  as  she  was  lifted  out  of  the 
water  by  the  gigantic  waves. 
The  shouts  of  the  seamen  who 
were  rushing  about  overhead 
made  me  realize  that  this  was  no 
ordinary  storm,  and  that  there 
was  trouble  brewing.  The 
cabins  resounded  with  the  cries 
of  terrified  men  and  women. 

144 


"Jean,"  said  my  wife  to 
Monsieur  le  docteur,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "  I  fear  that 
something  is  going  to  happen." 

"Let  it  happen,"  gulped 
Jean,  in  agony.  "I  don't  care." 

And  it  did  happen.  The 
next  instant  there  came  a  terri 
fie  crash,  and  the  whole  frame 
work  of  the  ship  seemed  to  be 
reft  apart.  I  felt  a  sudden  sink 
ing  sensation,  the  lights  became 
extinguished,  my  mouth  was 
filled  with  salt  water  and  then 
-I  heard  the  sweet  music  of 
birds  and  bells  and  fountains, 
and  saw  beautiful  green  pastures 

145 


and  lofty  hills  rising  in  the  dim 
distance.  But  my  dream  of  para 
disc  was  short-lived  for  almost  im 
mediately  a  huge,  black  mouth 
yawned  before  me,  and  I  entered 
once  more  that  Lethean  tunnel 
which  had  twice  before  sheltered 
me  from  the  horrors  of  life. 

Needless  to  say,  my  friend, 
I  came  to  life  a  fourth  time. 
The  buzz  of  voices  filled  my 
ears  and,  as  I  opened  my  eyes 
to  the  light  of  day,  I  saw  several 
people  standing  round  about 
me,  amongst  whom  I  immedi 
ately  recognized  a  woman  in 
white.  I  eagerly  scanned  her 

146 


countenance,  but  found,  I 
know  not  whether  with  joy  or 
sorrow,  that  it  was  not  she  who 
had  attended  me  during  my 
second  life.  I  was  really  get 
ting  so  hardened  to  this  sort  of 
existence  that  I  was  thoroughly 
indifferent  as  to  where  I  was 
born  or  who  were  my  parents. 

As  I  glanced  over  the  faces  of 
the  other  occupants  of  the  room, 
however,  I  suddenly  felt  my 
heart  throb  fast,  for  there,  not 
more  than  two  feet  from  my 
side,  stood  the  father  of  my  first 
life,  he  whom  I  loved  of  all 
men  and  with  whom  I  had 


taken  that  eventful  journey  to 
Nangpore  in  India.  Neverthe 
less,  I  did  not  lift  up  my  voice 
in  agony  this  time,  for  I  was 
becoming  too  well  accustomed 
to  surprises  of  this  sort  to  lose 
control  ot  my  passions.  I 
merely  wondered  what  my 
father  was  doing  there,  and 
whose  little  boy  was  I.  I  was 
not  so  sure  that  I  was  a  boy; 
but  I  took  it  for  granted  that, 
inasmuch  as  I  had  been  a  boy 
three  times,  the  good  stork 
would  not  ignore  my  one  pre 
rogative  this  fourth  time. 

My  tather  came  nearer  to  my 

148 


side    and   looked    into   my   fac 
with  his  kindly  eyes. 

"A  brave  little  fellow,"  said 
he,  tenderly,  smoothing  back 
my  bald  pate,  "with  even  the 
features  of  his  poor,  dead 
brother.  We  must  name  him 
after  Michel,  my  dear.  What 
think  you  of  Michel  Gulpe  the 
Second? ' 

"A  charming  name,"  ex 
claimed  a  soft  voice  near  me. 
"  We  will  surely  name  him  after 
your  dear  son,  Pierre.  I  never 
knew  your  Michel  but,  being  a 
son  of  his  father,  he  must  have 
been  a  delightful  man." 

149 


"Thank  you  a  thousand 
times,  Lucille,  darling,"  said  my 
father,  smiling.  "And  Michel 
the  Second  will  possess  an 
additional  charm  inasmuch  as 
he  is  your  son,  too,  my  sweet." 

So  my  own  father  was  my 
father  again!  The  rascal!  He 
had  gone  and  married  this 
woman,  Lucille  without  even 
asking  my  approbation.  And 
I  was  the  result.  I  rolled  my 
head  round  as  best  I  could,  and 
surveyed  with  a  critical  eye  the 
female  by  my  side.  A  charm 
ing  woman  she  was,  indeed, 
being  not  more  than  three-and- 

150 


twenty,  with  gorgeous  eyes  and 
a  shock  of  golden  hair  that 
would  have  driven  any  man  to 
drink.  She  looked  as  though 
she  might  be  an  extremely 
agreeable  and  easy  woman  to 
get  along  with  and  furthermore 
she  was  my  dear  father's  choice. 
So,  after  a  few  moments'  reflec 
tion,  I  decided  wisely  to  take 
things  as  they  were,  and  rolled 
over  on  my  side  and  went  to 
sleep. 

Well,  Monsieur,  there  is  not 
a  great  deal  more  to  tell.  I 
am  now  living  the  remnant  of 
this  fourth  life  feasting  my  mind 


on  memories  of  past  lives  and 
preparing  my  soul  for  future 
lives.  One  peculiarity  of  my 
existence  has  been  that,  as  an 
infant,  my  intellect  was  per 
fectly  developed  in  every  respect. 
It  retained  all  the  wisdom  that 
I  had  acquired  in  my  first  life, 
and  much  more  valuable 
material  that  I  acquired  in  my 
following  lives,  short  as  they 
were.  On  the  contrary,  how 
ever,  I  had  no  more  control 
over  my  physical  powers  than 
has  any  other  infant.  It  was 
not  given  me  to  manipulate  my 
Will  as  I  had  manipulated  my 


152 


Intellect,  and  it  was  this  lack  of 
power  that  resulted  in  all  the 
horrors  of  my  second  and  third 
lives.  I  have  devoted  the  best 
part  of  my  present  life  to  the 
solving  of  this  problem  of  the 
Will  and  as  you  have  seen, 
monsieur,  my  discovery  of  to 
night  will  enable  me  to  neutral 
ize  the  one  defect  that  has  been 
my  curse.  I  feel  that  my  days 
in  this  life  are  numbered,  and 
that  I  have  made  my  precious 
discovery  none  too  soon.  'Ere 
long,  when  I  feel  that  death  is 
near,  I  shall  make  goodly  use 
of  the  liquid  that  lies  on  yonder 

'53 


table.  It  shall  join  the  blood 
that  courses  my  veins,  and  its 
effect  will  be  a  combination  of 
Will  and  Intellect  impressed  up 
on  my  transmigratory  soul  in 
such  way  that  I  can  direct 
this  subject  soul  into  whatever 
form  or  condition  I  desire. 

Ah,  my  dear  friend,  what 
bliss  will  then  be  mine!  Would 
that  my  good  friend  Imam  Nath 
might  know  of  my  discovery, 
for  I  am  sure  it  would  save  him 
from  much  pain  and  sorrow. 
You  can  never  conceive  of  the 
humility,  monsieur,  that  my 
physical  impotence  brought 

154 


upon  me  in  my  second  and  third 
lives,  and  likewise  during  the 
first  years  of  my  present  life. 
I  was  obliged  to  creep  along  the 
floor,  instead  of  striding  like  a 
man,  which  was  no  trivial  wound 
to  my  pride,  I  can  assure  you. 
And  many  a  time,  when  I  was 
sucking  away  at  a  bottle  of  in 

D  J 

sipid  warm  milk,  I  nearly  died 
for  the  want  of  a  hot  roast  and 
a  bottle  of  rare  old  Burgundy. 
Nor  could  I  utter  a  word  by 
which  I  might  express  my  wants. 
And  often,  when  my  father 
would  take  me  up  and  begin 
trotting  me  on  his  knee,  I  would 


155 


shed  tears  at  the  indignity,  and 
would  strain  my  little  throat  in 
my  attempts  to  tell  him  all 
about  myself.  But  the  words 
would  not  come,  and  I  would 
writhe  in  agony  at  my  inability 
to  identify  myself  to  my  own 
father. 

One  day,  however,  after  I  had 
been  exerting  myself  for  an  hour 
to  get  my  vocal  chords  in  proper 
working  condition,  a  welcome 
sound  suddenly  burst  torth  from 
my  throat,  and  I  heard  myself 
say  "papa."  I  well  remember 
how  delighted  my  father  and 
mother  were  at  this  first  success 

156 


ful  effort  at  speech.  I  gloated 
over  my  victory  for  days.  From 
that  moment  I  made  excellent 
progress  in  the  art  of  speech.  I 
was  soon  able  to  say  "mamma," 
and  other  words  came  to  my 
tongue  in  rapid  succession. 

I  was  just  on  the  point  of 
joining  simple  words  together 
in  short  sentences,  when  my 
mother  fell  suddenly  ill  and 
shortly  after  died.  The  grief 
that  my  father  displayed  was 
wholly  from  the  heart,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  he  would  never 
become  reconciled  to  her  un 
timely  death.  I,  too,  was  quite 


heart-broken  over  the  bereave 
merit,  for  my  mother  was  a 
lovely  woman  and  I  was  really 
very  much  attached  to  her. 

After  the  funeral  my  father, 
acting  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  announced  that  he  was 
about  to  undertake  a  journey 
into  the  East.  I  decided  that  I 
would  go  too,  and  was  begin 
ning  to  grow  enthusiastic  at  the 
prospect  of  an  extended  sojourn 
in  India  where  I  might  meet 
my  friend  Imam  Nath  once 
more,  when  one  day  my  father 
took  me  in  a  carriage,  behind  a 
spanking  pair  of  horses,  to  the 

158 


outskirts  of  the  city.  I  was  en 
joying  the  ride  hugely,  and 
would  have  spurned  the  idea  of 
returning  home,  had  it  not  been 
that  we  drove  up  in  front  of  a 
large,  frowning  house  and 
stopped.  My  father  descended 
from  the  carriage,  gathered  me 
up  in  his  arms,  and  entered 
through  the  door,  which  had 
been  opened  by  a  tall  disa 
greeable-looking  personage  with 
a  quill  stuck  over  his  right  ear. 
And  then,  before  I  hardly  knew 
what  was  happening,  I  was  en 
rolled  in  a  big,  dusty  book  as 


159 


an  inmate  of  Monsieur  de  Dau 
phin's  kindergarten. 

I  then  realized  for  the  first 
time  that  my  father  was  going 
to  leave  me  all  alone  in  this 
forbidding  place.  As  he 
stooped  to  kiss  me  good-bye,  I 
set  up  a  woeful  wail,  and  tried 
to  tell  him  who  I  was  and  why 
he  should  not  leave  me  there. 
But  all  to  no  avail,  for  the 
words  refused  to  form  them 
selves  in  coherent  shape,  and  I 
soon  had  the  chagrin  of  seeing 
my  father  riding  sorrowfully 
back  toward  the  city. 

I     soon     brought    myself    to 

160 


terms,  however,  and  attended  to 
my  duties  at  Monsieur  de  Dau 
phin's  kindergarten  like  a  little 
man.  I  advanced  rapidly  to 
the  head  of  my  class,  which  was 
the  lowest  one  of  the  school,  and 
before  long  acquired  a  goodly 
supply  of  words  and  the  ability 
to  put  them  together  in  proper 
sequence.  Slowly  but  surely  I 
gained  complete  control  of  my 
vocal  equipment.  I  was  priding 
myself  on  the  fact  that  when  my 
dear  father  returned  from  his 
long  journey  I  could  tell  him 
who  I  was.  But  woe  is  me!  he 
never  came  back.  I  had  been 

161 


at  the  school  less  than  a  year 
when  I  received  word  that  the 
poor  man  had  died  of  a  fever  in 
Calcutta. 

I  fell  heir  to  an  exceedingly 
comfortable  estate,  which  I  made 
no  attempts  to  enjoy  until  I  was 
fifteen  years  of  age.  Then  I 
bade  adieu  to  Monsieur  de  Dau 
phin  and  his  sour-faced  assistants, 
and  set  forth  to  see  the  world. 
Needless  to  say,  I  saw  it,  mon 
sieur.  In  less  than  five  years  I 
had  squandered  my  last  sou  and 
found  myself  stranded  in  this 
town.  I  have  never  left  it.  By 


162 


dint  of  hard  work  I  have  accumu 

lated  all  that  you  see  about  you. 

And  now,  monsieur,  you  have 


my  story. 


163 


PART    V. 


PART  FIVE 


AYLIGHT  was 
beginning  to 
streak  the  East 
and  the  rain 
that  had  all 
night  long  lashed  the  corners  of 
the  house  in  fitful  gusts,  was 
subsiding  to  a  dismal  drizzle. 
Michel  Gulpe  laid  down  his  pipe, 
which  had  never  once  touched 
his  lips  during  the  night,  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  gazed  for  some 
minutes  through  the  side  window 

167 


at  the  bare,  desolate  wall  of  the 
next  building  that  excluded  our 
view  from  the  outside  world.  So 
interested  had  I  been  in  the 
strange  adventures  of  my  friend 
the  tobacconist,  that  I  had  be 
come  oblivious  of  the  flight  of 
time,  and  a  sudden  chill  of  de 
spair  swept  through  my  veins  as 
my  thoughts  went  back  to  Mad 
ame  Valjean.  The  one  thought 
that  consoled  me  was  that  if 
Madame  had  been  at  her  window 
all  this  time  awaiting  my  return, 
she  ran  a  fair  chance  of  taking 
a  chill.  And  if  she  took  a  chill 
—  which  she  ever  did  at  the 

168 


least  provocation  —  my  day  of 
reckoning  would  be  indefinitely 
postponed. 

"Well,  friend  Michel/'  said  I, 
arising,  and  throwing  my  great 
coat  over  my  shoulders,  "I  re 
gret  that  I  have  been  the  cause 
of  your  midnight  vigil." 

"Not  at  all,  monsieur,  not  at 
all!  "  exclaimed  Michel,  walking 
out  with  me  to  the  front  of  the 
shop,  and  opening  the  shutters. 
"Many  a  night  have  I  remained 
at  my  post  until  it  was  time  to 
prepare  for  the  morning's  trade, 
and  the  work  has  been  a  thou 
sand  times  more  laborious,  I  can 

169 


assure  you.  The  midnight  oil 
that  I  have  burned  has  had  much 
to  do  with  the  evil  name  the 
superstitious  villagers  hereabout 
have  given  me.  But  then,  my 
friend,  what  care  we  for  their 
foolish  prattle  ? ' 

Poor  Michel  Gulpe!  Crazy 
as  a  loon,  but  as  wise  as  the 
seven  sages  of  old.  A  true  par 
adox  of  a  man,  like  whom  the 
world  contains  none. 

I  left  the  little  boutique  detabac 
and  walked  slowly  down  the  Rue 
Martel.  It  seemed  as  though  I 
had  just  emerged  from  a  strange 
but  fascinating  dream,  the  shreds 

170 


of  which  still  floated  through 
my  half-dazed  brain.  I  had  to 
accustom  myself  anew  to  the 
real  life  that  surrounded  me  on 
all  sides.  The  sudden  slamming 
of  a  shutter,  the  heavy  rumbling 
of  an  early-morning  vegetable 
cart  on  its  way  to  the  market 
place,  the  shrill  voice  of  a  house 
wife  arousing  her  sluggish  family, 
all  sounded  harsh  and  unusual 
to  my  ears. 

As  I  ascended  the  Rue  Roy 
ale  and  approached  my  humble 
nest,  I  caught  sight  of  Madame 
Valjean  beating  a  rug  in  the 
rear  garden.  Her  back  was 


171 


turned  towards  me,  and  I  sue 
ceeded  in  slipping  within  doors 
unobserved.  I  reached  my 
room  in  safety;  but  not  until  I 
had  barricaded  the  door  did  I 
feel  secure  from  sudden  on 
slaught. 

The  following  afternoon  I 
was  sitting  in  the  wine-room 
of  the  Cheval  Blanc  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  the  diligence  from 
Poitiers.  The  day  was  oppres 
sively  warm  and  the  open  win 
dow  by  which  I  sat  afforded 
the  least  possible  trace  of  a 
breeze.  As  I  glanced  down 
the  road  I  saw  Jean  Gaultier 

172 


and  Sulpice  Taubert  coming  up 
the  hill,  Jean  scuffling  along 
hands  in  pockets,  Sulpice  strug 
gling  beneath  a  huge  basket  of 
fresh  loaves.  They  halted  for 
a  moment  in  front  of  the 
Cheval  Blanc,  so  near  the  win 
dow  where  I  sat  that  I  could 
overhear  their  conversation. 

"It's  very  queer,"  said  Jean 
kicking  his  metal  toe  caps 
against  the  stone  step.  "  You 
don't  imagine  he  has  left  town 
do  you  ?  ' 

"I  don't  know  what  to 
think,"  replied  Sulpice,  resting 
his  basket  on  a  worm-eaten 

173 


hitching  post.  "  He  has  never 
gone  away  before.  Felicien 
says  there  has  been  a  light  in 
that  back  room  every  night  for 
forty  years." 

"I  sneaked  'round  there  three 
times  last  night,"  continued 
Jean,  "and  tried  to  peek 
through  the  window.  But  the 
place  was  as  black  as  the  Devil's 
Hole." 

"  Maybe  he  ran  off  into  the 
woods  when  he  changed  into  an 
elephant  the  other  night,"  sug 
gested  Sulpice  in  a  low  voice. 
"You  know,  Jean,  I  always  said 


174 


old  Gulpe  would  disappear  that 
way  some  night." 

J  to 

"  Nonsense!  "  exclaimed  Jean 
incredulously,  "  He  wouldn't 
disappear  that  way.  Felicien 
says  he's  going  to  change  the 
whole  village  into  an  ant-hill 
before  he  goes  away  for  good. 
At  any  rate  we'll  go  there  again 
to-night  and  see  what's  doing." 

Then  Sulpice  grasped  his 
basket  again,  and  the  two  boys 
continued  their  way  up  the  Rue 
Royale,  jabbering  as  they  went. 

I  was  perplexed  at  what  the 
boys  had  said.  According  to 
them,  there  had  appeared  no 


'75 


light  in  Michel's  shop  the  night 
before.  This  seemed  exceed 
ingly  strange  to  me,  for  I  knew 
that  he  very  seldom  wandered 
abroad,  and  never  at  night. 
After  the  arrival  of  the  diligence 
I  sought  the  Rue  Martel,  and 
approached  the  little  boutique  de 
tabac.  Surely  Michel  must  be 
there,  for  the  shutters  were 
open.  But  as  I  looked  through 
the  greasy  window,  I  could  not 
see  him  within  the  front  shop. 
I  tried  the  door,  but  found  it 
locked.  I  knocked  on  the  glass 
and  rattled  the  latch,  but  no 
one  responded.  Could  it  be 

176 


that  Michel  had  fallen  asleep 
during  the  busiest  part  of  the 
day  ?  I  went  down  the  side 
alley  and  raised  myself  upon 
the  stone  that  rested  before  the 
rear  window.  The  room  was 
dark,  and  at  first  I  could  see 
nothing.  But  as  my  eyes  be 
came  accustomed  to  the  shadows 
I  could  make  out  the  table  and 
all  that  was  upon  it.  It  seemed 
very  much  the  same  as  it  had 
two  nights  before,  with  its 
instruments  and  vials  and  dishes 
and  manuscripts.  Michel  could 
not  be  there,  I  was  quite  sure. 
I  was  on  the  point  of  returning 

i77 


to  the  front  of  the  shop  when 
my  gaze  fell  suddenly  upon  a 
long,  dark  object  stretched  out 
upon  the  low  couch.  Closer 
examination  showed  this  object 
to  be  the  body  of  a  man,  its 
face  turned  toward  the  wall. 

"Michel!'  I  called,  "  Michel 
Gulpe,  let  me  in  !  ' 

No  answer. 

I  pounded  upon  the  case 
ment,  but  there  was  no  move 
ment  from  the  figure  within. 
In  desperation  I  hastened  to 
the  front  of  the  shop  again  and 
threw  my  body  against  the 
door.  The  lock  could  not 

178 


The  ghastly  white  face  of  Michael 
Gulpe  was  staring  at  me. — Page  178. 


have  been  very  staunch,  for  it 
readily  gave  way  and  let  me 
within  the  shop.  I  rushed 
through  to  the  back  room  and 
grasped  the  shoulder  of  the  long 
gaunt  figure  that  lay  stretched 
out  before  me. 

"Michel!"  cried  I,  shaking 
him  gently.  "Mich — " 

I  did  not  finish  my  sentence 
for  at  the  first  touch  the  limp 
body  rolled  over  on  its  back, 
and  the  ghastly  white  face  of 
Michel  Gulpe  was  staring  at  me 
as  can  only  the  face  of  the 
dead. 

Poor   Michel!       As    he     had 

179 


lived,  so  had  he  died — neglect 
ed  and  alone. 

The  room  was  undisturbed 
save  for  a  small  vial  that  lay  on 
the  floor  by  the  side  of  the 
dead  man.  I  knew  only  too 
well  what  that  vial  had  con 
tained.  'Ere  the  world  had 
learned  of  his  greatness,  Michel 
had  tested  his  discovery  —  the 
discovery  which  was  to  make 
him  the  savant  of  all  times. 

After  Monsieur  le  docteur 
Laurens  had  finished  his  exami 
nation  of  the  body,  I  asked  him 
for  his  verdict. 

"  Arsenic,"    said   he,    shaking 

1 80 


his  head,  "  Too  much  arsenic, 
monsieur," 

A  day  later  a  mournful  little 
procession  consisting  of  a  push 
cart,  a  long  black  box,  a  man 
with  a  spade,  and  one  solitary 
mourner  started  from  a  boutique 
de  tabac  on  the  Rue  Bartel 
and  moved  slowly  over  the  hill 
towards  the  city  of  the  dead. 
As  the  one  solitary  mourner 
was  sadly  reflecting  on  the  awful 
ness  of  death,  two  small  boys 
passed  by,  and  one  was  heard 
to  whisper  to  the  other: 

"  I  say,  Jean,  didn't  you  just 


181 


see  a   black    cat    jump   out    of 
that  box  ?" 


THE     END 


A     000035957     o 


